AUGUSTUS 
THOMAS 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


"I'M    AWFULLY    IN    LOVE    WITH    YOU " 


THE 
WITCHING   HOUR 


BY 

AUGUSTUS  THOMAS 


% 

ILLUSTRATED  FROM        f 
SCENES  IN  THE  PLAY        ;• 


NEW    YORK 

GROSSET   &    DUNLAP  1 


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Published  by  Arrangement  with  Harper  &  Brothers 


P.S  3 


Copyright,  1908,  by  AUGUSTUS  THOMAS. 

All  rights  reserved. 
Published  October,  1908. 


THE    WITCHING    HOUR 


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THE  WITCHING   HOUR 


'"PHE  audience  that  filled  Macauley's  Theatre  was 
1  one  of  the  most  intellectual  and  fashionable 
that  Louisville  had  ever  seen.  The  lighter  operas 
were  not  uncommon,  but  Wagner  was  a  curiosity  if 
not  yet  a  fad,  and  both  the  curious  and  the  devoted 
were  in  attendance.  The  curtain  had  gone  up  on  the 
final  act. 

Jack  Brookfield  was  leaning  against  the  back  wall 
of  the  auditorium.  He  was  watching  the  occupants 
of  the  proscenium-box  just  over  the  drummer — more 
especially  the  man  and  the  boy  and  girl  who  occupied 
the  three  chairs  in  the  back  of  the  box.  Besides 
Brookfield  himself  these  three  were  perhaps  the  only 
persons  not  intent  upon  the  scene  on  the  stage. 

Brookfield  could  see,  as  he  watched  her  through 
his  glasses,  that  his  niece — the  girl  in  the  box — was 
annoyed.  He  knew  her  temperament  well  enough  to 
interpret  accurately  the  sudden  frown,  the  spasmodic 
twitching  at  one  corner  of  the  shapely  mouth.  He 
also  knew  well  enough  the  man  who  was  breathing 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR 

over  her  shoulder  to  divine  that  some  offence  was 
being  given. 

The  boy  in  the  box  watched  the  couple  beside  him 
with  jealous  eyes. 

Presently  the  man,  with  a  motion  that  confessed 
the  clandestine  character  of  his  speech,  oblivious  of 
or  indifferent  to  the  boy  who  watched  him,  turned 
with  the  directness  of  one  positively  spoken  to  and 
looked  across  the  theatre  into  Brookfield's  glasses. 
Brookfield  shifted  his  gaze  to  the  stage,  but  not  quick 
ly  enough  to  avoid  the  man's  detection  of  the  fact 
that  he  was  being  watched.  The  girl,  who  sat  slight 
ly  in  front  of  him,  was  in  some  way,  though  without 
communication,  aware  of  his  action,  and,  turning,  she 
also  looked  at  her  uncle.  But  Brookfield  was  now  in 
tent  on  the  stage,  and  the  man  in  the  box,  finding 
himself  no  longer  watched,  continued  his  addresses. 

"This  isn't  an  opera  audience,"  he  said;  "it  isn't 
an  opera  company.  Some  day  you  will  see  the  real 
thing  at  Co  vent  Garden  or  at  La  Scala." 

The  girl  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Oh  yes,  you  will,"  he  persisted;  "I'll  take  you 
there." 

The  girl  spoke  to  him  obliquely  behind  her  fan. 
"I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  to  me  now — I  want  to 
listen  to  the  music." 

Hardmuth  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  readjusted 
his  shirt  bosom,  which  was  bulging  from  the  waist 
coat.  He  turned  to  the  boy,  and  in  rough  playful 
ness  put  a  strong  hand  on  his  knee  and  gripped  it 
viciously.  The  boy,  angrier  than  before,  threw  Hard- 
muth's  hand  from  his  knee  with  an  exclamation  that 


THE   WITCHING    HOUR 

caused  those  near  them  to  breathe  a  sibilant  expostu 
lation,  and  the  three  persons  in  the  front  of  the  box 
looked  back  inquiringly.  The  girl,  flushed  with  em 
barrassment  at  the  attention  they  had  attracted, 
and,  wishing  also  to  fix  that  attention  upon  the 
proper  offender,  said: 

"You  see,  you  are  disturbing  the  audience." 

"That  shows  we're  the  real  thing,"  Hardmuth  an 
swered,  laughing  audibly. 

The  indignant  persons  in  the  parquet  shifted  un 
easily  in  their  seats.  The  girl's  mother  turned  to  the 
couple  with  a  warning  finger  on  her  lips,  and  with  an 
admonitory  "Viola"  to  her  daughter  and  a  vexed 
"Clay"  to  the  boy,  the  box-party  subsided  into  quiet. 
But  as  the  incident  passed  and  the  others  became  ab 
sorbed  in  the  action  on  the  stage,  Hardmuth  hitched 
his  chair  a  trifle  closer  to  Viola  and  resumed  his  stac 
cato  whisper  over  her  shoulder. 

"You  know  when  I  said  I'd  take  you  there  I  didn't 
mean  you'd  go  as  a  prima  donna  and  that  I  should 
go  as  an  impresario — don't  make  any  mistake  about 
that."  He  touched  her  suggestively  on  the  elbow 
and  leaned  back  with  a  smile  of  self-satisfaction.  4 

Hardmuth 's  experience  with  the  women  he  had 
known  had  taught  him  that  an  attempted  approach 
to  their  favor  through  compliment  and  delicate  ser 
vice  was  good  time  wasted.  He  believed  that  the 
atmosphere  of  shyness  which  surrounds  most  girls 
of  Viola  Campbell's  age  was  assumed — that  it  was 
a  little  barrier  of  hypocrisy  before  which  they  kept 
in  waiting  the  timid  applicant  while  they  examined 
him  at  leisure.  His  experience  had  justified  his 

3 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR 

belief  that  this  insulation  could  be  broken  through, 
perhaps  utterly  dissipated,  by  a  few  diplomatic  but 
no  less  forceful  shocks  to  their  sensibilities.  He  had 
also  by  nature  and  by  cultivation  the  safe  and  ten 
tative  method  of  approach  in  which  the  cheap  poli 
tician  and  corruptionist  is  skilled.  With  him  insult 
ing  audacity  masqueraded  as  tolerable  playfulness. 
If  rebuked,  it  was  gaucherie;  if  accepted  and  suc 
cessful,  it  was  conquest.  He  leaned  slightly  to  his 
left,  and  through  the  tail  of  his  eye  endeavored  to 
ascertain  how  Viola  had  taken  his  sally.  Perhaps  she 
had  not  understood  him.  He  remembered  previous 
occasions  when  he  had  been  too  indirect.  He  there 
fore  returned  to  the  charge. 

"I'm  not  going  as  a  Cook's  agent — don't  mean  to 
take  the  entire  seminary  class."  He  paused  watch 
fully.  "And  I  think  I  could  arrange  it  with  mother." 

The  sextet  on  the  stage  was  finishing  at  that  mo 
ment,  and,  under  cover  of  the  applause  that  fol 
lowed,  Viola  leaned  forward  in  pretended  comment 
to  Ellinger,  who  sat  in  the  front  of  the  box  with  Viola's 
mother  and  Mrs.  Whipple.  Hardmuth  was  in  doubt. 
The  conductor  lifted  his  baton  for  an  encore,  the 
house  recomposed  itself.  Viola  was  too  inexperienced 
to  proceed  courageously  with  her  half -formed  inten 
tion  to  change  seats  with  Ellinger;  moreover,  there 
was  another  admonitory  glance  from  her  mother,  so 
she  fell  back  and  kept  her  place. 

Hardmuth  admired  the  ample  arch  of  her  neck,  as 
he  would  have  admired  a  similar  point  of  excellence  in 
a  Kentucky  horse.  During  the  half -minute  since  he 
had  spoken  to  her  there  had  gathered  under  the  fine 

4 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

outline  of  her  cheek  and  partly  overspread  her  throat 
some  inter-blending  spots  of  red,  like  thumb  marks. 
They  were  unusual  but  not  especially  novel  trophies 
to  Hardmuth,  and  they  had  not  yet  been  danger  sig 
nals  ;  the  girl  was  certainly  not  as  indifferent  to  him 
as  she  had  pretended.  Hardmuth  was  so  constituted 
that  in  the  absence  of  direct  evidence  he  would  never 
interpret  a  departure  from  indifference  as  a  sign  of 
disfavor.  Viola's  agitation  encouraged  him. 

"I  said  I  thought  I  could  fix  it  with  mother,  and 
I'm  sure  I  could  fix  it  with  your  uncle  Jack." 

An  instant  look  of  relief  came  over  Viola's  face  at 
the  mention  of  her  uncle.  A  sense  of  protection  was 
always  present  with  her  whenever  she  thought  of 
him;  there  was  no  danger  from  this  man  at  her  side, 
nor  from  any  man,  while  she  had  Uncle  Jack.  The 
expression  of  relief  lilted  into  half  a  smile.  Hardmuth 
tapped  her  approvingly  and  dominantly  on  the  elbow, 
and  added: 

"And  I  will  fix  it!" 

That  she  drew  away  her  arm,  that  she  turned  with  a 
frown  above  open  eyes  and  with  lips  parted  in  a  swift 
impulse  of  resentment,  meant  only  spirited  going  to 
Hardmuth.  She  had  smiled  at  his  proposal  to  fix  it 
with  Uncle  Jack,  and  by  the  method  of  Hardmuth 's 
measure  negotiations  had  been  opened. 

Brookfield  had  moved  from  his  position  at  the  back 
wall  to  the  newel-post  of  the  balcony  stairway  which 
mounted  from  the  broad  foyer  of  the  theatre.  He 
was  thinking  of  JFIardmuth's  consciousness  of  the  fact 
that  he  had  bcyc-n  watched.  The  thought  recurred  to 
him  vaguely  that  he  had  read  or  heard  it  said  some- 

5 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

where  that  almost  any  person,  if  regarded  intently, 
would  turn  about  and  look  at  the  gazer.  He  was  won 
dering  whether  it  was  merely  superstition  or  fact, 
whether  it  was  a  power  resident  in  the  one  who  looked 
or  a  sensitiveness  belonging  to  the  one  observed,  when 
without  apparent  cue  or  suggestion  he  felt  a  tingling 
at  the  roots  of  his  hair  and  a  slow  creeping  through 
the  nerves  of  his  shoulders.  He  turned  with  an  un 
wonted  sensation  of  awe  and  found  himself  looking 
into  the  eyes  of  an  old  man  who  stood  in  the  private 
doorway  that  led  from  the  foyer  of  the  theatre  to 
the  manager's  office. 

Brookfield  saw  only  the  eyes. 

He  had  a  misty  impression  of  a  forehead  surmount 
ed  by  white  hair.  There  was  also  the  impression  of 
a  smile  tolerant  and  fraternal ;  of  a  figure  grace 
ful  and  dignified.  There  was  the  sense  of  a  second 
figure  at  its  side,  but  if  Brookfield  had  been  asked  to 
tell  what  he  saw  he  would  have  said:  "Only  a  pair  of 
eyes." 

The  gaze  was  but  momentary.  The  old  man  seemed 
to  defer  to  his  companion,  whom  Brookfield  recog 
nized  as  the  most  distinguished  editor  in  the  South; 
and  then  he  saw  the  two  elderly  men  go  back  into  the 
manager's  office. 

Brookfield  had  the  habit  of  excessive  candor,  es 
pecially  with  himself.  He  had  a  fair  capacity  for  self- 
analysis  and  an  absence  of  conceit  that  left  him  with 
an  accurate  sense  of  proportion  where  his  own  quali 
ties  were  concerned.  He  found  himself  at  the  mo 
ment  disturbed  by  a  distinct  sense  of  inferiority,  not 
to  say  guilt;  he  was  puzzled  to  account  for  it.  Was 

6 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

it  due  to  the  fact  that  he  had  been  apparently  sur 
prised  in  his  surveillance  of  the  party  in  the  box? 
Was  it  something  about  himself  that  he  subconscious 
ly  felt  the  editor  might  impart  to  the  stranger  ?  Was 
it  any  shade  of  implied  superiority  in  the  tolerant 
smile  of  the  old  man?  As  he  questioned  himself  he 
felt  that  it  was  none  of  these.  He  had  been  conscious 
of  the  feeling  at  the  moment  when  he  first  turned  and 
met  the  stranger's  look  and  before  the  other  considera 
tions  had  been  evolved. 

Who  was  the  man  ? 

Brookfield  would  know.  He  handed  the  borrowed 
opera-glasses  to  the  usher  and  tiptoed  as  quietly  as 
possible  from  the  foyer,  through  the  swing-to  doors 
of  baize  into  the  long  lobby  of  the  theatre,  from  which 
a  door  opened  into  the  manager's  office  at  right 
angles  to  the  one  in  which  the  two  old  gentlemen  had 
stood.  But  his  moment  of  introspection  and  hesi 
tancy  had  cost  him  the  desired  information  for  the 
nonce,  for  the  two  men  were  just  crossing  the  side 
walk  at  the  farther  end  of  the  lobby.  Brookfield  fol 
lowed  some  forty  feet  to  the  main  entrance,  where  he 
paused  and  watched  them  cross  Walnut  Street  di 
agonally  to  the  left  and  enter  the  Pendennis  Club. 

The  Pendennis  Club  at  half-past  ten  was  practically 
deserted.  One  reason  for  this  was  the  unusual  op 
position  of  a  Wagner  opera  at  Macauley's;  another 
reason  was  that  the  club  is  what  the  younger  set 
called  an  old  man's  club.  The  editor  and  his  guest 
peeped  into  the  spacious  and  home-like  library,  with 
its  carpet  of  green  and  its  furniture  of  mahogany  and 

7 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR 

Russia  leather,  and,  as  they  hesitated  a  moment  at 
the  door  of  the  billiard-room,  a  colored  boy  came  for 
ward  to  take  their  hats. 

"No,"  said  the  editor,  "we  are  going  back  again. 
What  will  you  drink,  Mr.  Justice?" 

"Is  that  imperative?"  asked  the  older  man. 

"It  is  customary,  sir." 

"I  think  I  will  watch  you."  The  editor  gave  his 
order.  "And,  boy,  bring  it  up-stairs — the  little  room 
where  the  piano  is." 

"Yes,  sir." 

The  gentlemen  mounted  the  two  short  flights  lead 
ing  to  the  second  floor,  and  moved  forward  to  the  lit 
tle  room  which,  in  the  remodelled  club,  has  since  been 
thrown  into  the  dining-hall. 

"Go  ahead."  The  Justice  waved  his  hand  easily 
toward  the  upright  piano  standing  at  the  wall.  "I'd 
rather  hear  you  ramble  over  this  key -board  than 
listen  to  that  organized  and  pompous  procession  of 
sound  across  the  street." 

"The  dry  spells  are  a  little  wearisome,  but  you'll 
certainly  like  this." 

Then  the  plump  but  agile  and  almost  feminine 
fingers  drifted  easily  and  sympathetically  over  the 
keys. 

When  the  darky  boy  came  in  with  the  carafe  and 
siphon  and  the  clinking  ice,  the  Justice  was  lean 
ing  back  in  his  easy-chair  and  the  editor  was  finish 
ing  his  sympathetic  approximation  of  the  Wagner 
melody.  The  music  ceased  as  the  boy  put  his  tray 
on  the  table. 

"What  is  that?"  asked  the  Justice. 

8 


THE   WITCHING    HOUR 

"That's  bourbon,  sir,"  replied  the  boy,  with  celerity. 

"I  was  speaking  to  the  Colonel." 

"Excuse  me."     The  boy  left  him. 

"That's  the  melody  of  the  sextet  that  you  would 
have  heard  if  you  had  taken  my  advice  and  remained 
a  moment  longer."  Then,  as  his  thought  went  back 
to  the  theatre,  and  the  subject  of  their  conversation 
before  they  left  it,  the  editor  said: 

"What  do  you  want  to  know  about  Brookfield?" 

"In  the  first  place,  I  wish  to  identify  him.  Is 
there  another  Brookfield  in  the  city?" 

"None  that  I  know."  Then  quickly:  "Except  his 
sister,  Mrs.  Campbell;  they  are  the  last  members  of 
the  family." 

"The  Brookfield  I  mean,"  said  the  Justice,  "is  a 
man  who  buys  pictures." 

"That's  Jack." 

"Does  he  sell  them?" 

"Well,  not  as  a  business,  but  I  think  he  is  human. 
Have  you  some  pictures  to  sell?" 

The  Justice  shook  his  head.  "I  understand  that 
Mr.  Brookfield,  of  Louisville,  bought  a  picture  which 
I  had  coveted  for  several  years.  I  don't  know  that 
I  could  buy  it.  When  I  saw  it  at  the  dealer's  in 
New  York  I  felt  that  its  price  was  beyond  the  purse 
of  a  man  in  my  position.  Do  you  know  Mr.  Brook- 
field?" 

"Painfully." 

"Why  painfully?" 

"Well,  I've  made  some  reckless  contributions  to 
his  bank  account.  Mr.  Brookfield  runs  a  gambling- 
house." 


THE  WITCHING   HOUR 

"Oh!  You  mean  that  you  would  not  care  to  com 
municate  with  him  personally?" 

"I  don't  mean  that — on  the  contrary,  I  don't  know 
of  anything  that  would  give  me  greater  pleasure  than 
a  half -hour  or  half -day,  or,  for  that  matter,  a  half-year 
with  Jack  Brookfield.  There  isn't  a  more  entertain 
ing  man  in  the  State.  Do  you  wish  me  to  see  him  for 
you?" 

"I'd  like  to  know  if  he  has  the  picture  in  question, 
and  if  he  would  consider  a  reasonable  offer  for  it." 

"Why  don't  you  see  him  yourself,  or  with  me?" 

"I  have  my  reservation  on  the  morning  train  for 
Washington." 

"See  him  to-night,"  prompted  the  editor. 

"Is  that  possible?" 

"We  can  find  out,  and  I  am  almost  sure  it  is.  He 
has  this  box-party  with  his  sister  and  niece  across  the 
street.  Most  probably  he  will  take  them  home  and 
then  go  to  his  game.  At  any  rate,  we  can  go  over 
and  ask  him,  or  we  can  wait  a  half -hour  and  telephone 
him." 

"I  should  think  telephoning  the  better  plan,"  said 
the  Justice.  "If  we  spoke  to  him  now  the  inquiry 
would  have  somewhat  the  color  of  a  request.  If  his 
game  is  open  and  the  gentleman  is  doing  business 
when  we  telephone,  it  would  be  no  particular  hard 
ship  to  receive  a  caller  for  a  few  minutes." 

"Are  you  sure,  Mr.  Justice,"  the  editor  asked,  with 
a  smile,  ' '  that  you  would  be  superior  to  the  blandish 
ments  of  the  fickle  goddess  if  you  came  within  ear-shot 
of  the  chips?" 

"I  should  be  interested  to  see,"  the  old  jurist  an- 
10 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

swered.  "I  haven't  made  a  bet  on  anything  more 
important  than  that  little  game  of  penny  ante  that 
the  Secretary  used  to  have  at  the  Shoreham  since  I 
have  been  in  Washington.  Do  you  remember  that 
week  at  Chamberlain's,  when  Raymond  was  playing 
at  the  National?" 

"Perfectly.  Won't  you  change  your  mind  about 
this?"  indicating  the  carafe.  "I  mean  to  have  an 
other  myself." 

The  Justice  gave  a  little  wave  of  assent,  the  editor 
touched  the  push-button  by  the  mantel,  and -the  talk 
drifted  into  a  field  of  fellowship  with  an  atmosphere 
of  chance  and  good  living  and  retrospection. 

Brookfield  paced  thoughtfully  the  long  lobby  of  the 
old  theatre.  Despite  the  fact  that  his  figure  was  what 
a  Louisville  darky  would  have  described  as  "kind 
o'  settled,"  there  was  about  it  certain  marks  of  the 
athlete.  The  chest  was  deep,  the  head  well  set  on 
the  shoulders.  When  he  reached  the  end  of  his  beat 
and  started  back,  the  turn  and  the  first  step  to  the 
rear  were  propelled  from  the  ball  of  the  foot  that  had 
arrested  the  forward  motion — there  was  no  halt  and 
turn-tabling  on  the  two  feet.  As  some  thought  added 
emphasis  to  his  motion,  there  was  a  "boring  in"  with 
the  left  shoulder  that  is  sometimes  noticeable  in  one 
who  has  had  reasonable  practise  at  sparring.  He  took 
a  hand  from  his  pocket.  It  wandered  uneasily,  but 
not  nervously,  over  his  cheek  and  chin.  The  hand 
was  broad  and  long.  There  was  vitality  in  the  thumb 
and  imagination  in  the  outer  ball  of  the  palm.  It 
had  latent  grip.  The  fingers  tapered,  but  not  un- 

ii 


THE  WITCHING   HOUR 

pleasantly.  Brookfield's  face  had  more  stren<  .1  than 
beauty.  It  might  have  been  thought  to  Cairy  too 
much  flesh  if  the  planes  of  it  had  been  ><•  ""  'lied. 
The  protuberances  over  the  eyes  were  men-,, .  ,.  The 
nose  was  ample  in  bridge  and  profile,  sligl  more 
than  aquiline  with  that  spread  of  nostrils  which 
some  associate  with  economy.  The  lips  were  full  and 
saved  from  sensuality  by  the  length  and  firmness  of 
the  upper  one.  The  nether  lip  had  an  oratorical  pout. 
The  eyes  were  full.  At  their  outer  corners  the  phreno 
logical  bump  of  calculation  overhung  and  in  certain 
portions  hid  the  upper  lid.  Below  the  eyes  there  was 
an  inclination  to  puff.  The  eye  itself  was  the  uncer 
tain  color  of  smoked  glass.  When  Brookfield  smiled 
his  eyes  were  almost  blue;  when  he  swore — and  he 
swore  occasionally — they  were  quite  black;  but  they 
were  always  level,  fearless,  unwavering.  The  head 
was  round  and  fairly  large.  The  ears  were  noticeably 
low  in  position,  indicating  a  capacious  brain-pan.  At 
the  base  of  the  skull  behind  there  was  a  fulness  not 
altogether  pleasing  to  the  sight,  but,  like  all  men 
similarly  endowed,  its  possessor  had  an  occult  and 
reciprocal  understanding  of  all  dumb  animals. 

As  Brookfield  paced  back  and  forth  he  endeavored 
to  get  his  mind  away  from  the  stranger  who  had  so 
singularly  attracted  him — and  the  old  lobby  was  po 
tent  with  suggestion.  Except  for  an  occasional  single 
picture  here  and  there,  which  he  recognized  as  recent 
additions,  its  walls  closely  and  irregularly  covered 
with  faded  and  fading  photographs,  were  as  he  re 
membered  them  to  have  been  for  the  past  twenty 
years.  Favorites  of  the  theatre-going  public  of  the 

12 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

John  Owens  and  the  elder  Davenport  were 
repi^ented  there;  Goodwin,  juvenile  and  sleek  and 
s]i  .1- •  -s  Brookfield  remembered  him  in  the  early 
da^  'no'/iis  popularity;  Joe  Emmett,  another  helpful 
pat-  ,-pf  Brookfield's  establishment ;  John  Raymond, 
with  whom,  when  it  had  been  necessary  to  leave  the 
table  for  the  theatre,  he  had  repaired  to  the  old 
actor's  dressing-room  and  continued  the  contest  by 
matching  silver  dollars  during  waits.  These  and  hun 
dreds  of  others  gazed  at  him  with  the  well-remem 
bered  looks  of  early  friends. 

There  was  a  patter  of  metallic  taps  on  the  tiles 
behind  him.  Brookfield  turned  to  meet  a  shaggy, 
rheumatic  and  over-fed  dog,  half  Irish  terrier  and  half 
bull.  The  dog  wagged  his  stumpy  tail  and  turned 
over  on  his  back,  all  four  paws  in  the  air,  at  Brook- 
field's  feet.  Brookfield  understood  the  request,  and 
as  he  scratched  the  shaggy  belly  with  the  toe  of  his 
pump  he  said,  "Where's  your  master,  Bert — where  is 
he?"  Bert  interpreted  the  remark  to  be  a  request 
for  his  opinion  upon  the  character  of  the  massage,  so 
he  wriggled  electrically  and  smiled  dog  fashion.  Know 
ing  that  the  manager  of  the  theatre  was  not  far  off 
when  the  dog  was  in  the  lobby,  Brookfield  moved  back 
toward  the  private  office.  The  dog  preceded  him  and 
stood  expectantly  at  the  second  door,  which  was  the 
one  leading  into  the  theatre.  Brookfield  opened  it; 
the  dog  went  into  the  auditorium,  as  was  his  undis 
puted  privilege,  and  Brookfield  followed.  Bert  pat 
tered  down  the  side  aisle  and  into  the  proscenium- 
box,  by  which  Brookfield  knew  that  the  manager  was 
probably  on  the  stage.  He  desisted,  therefore,  from 

13 


THE  WITCHING   HOUR 

his  purpose  in  following  the  dog,  especially  as  his 
knowledge  of  the  opera  reminded  him  that  it  was 
nearing  the  final  curtain.  He  stood  looking  over  the 
audience. 

The  distinctive  charm  of  Macauley's  Theatre  is  its 
somewhat  antiquated  model :  a  wide  and  shallow  par 
quet  floor  surrounded  by  a  dress-circle,  dish-shaped, 
the  rise  a  little  more  acute  than  that  favored  by 
modern  architecture,  but  making  it  possible  for  every 
one  in  the  theatre  to  see  everybody  else,  and  giving 
to  it  that  feeling  of  intimacy  and  homelikeness  so  dear 
to  the  Southern  heart.  Except  for  a  few  purchasers 
who  had  drifted  in  from  the  hotels — the  small  percent 
age  of  transient  visitors  —  the  ground-floor  members 
of  the  audience  of  this  night  were  almost  a  family. 

It  was  an  assemblage  melancholy  for  Brookfield  in 
its  suggestion.  His  business  made  him  the  intimate 
and  confidant  of  many  of  the  men  present,  who  had 
passed  him  with  slight  recognition  in  the  intermis 
sions.  His  profession  had  estranged  him  from  many 
of  the  families  represented,  in  whose  homes  he  had 
been  a  welcome  visitor  two-and- twenty  years  before. 
His  position,  as  he  stood  there  alone  at  the  rear  of 
the  foyer,  symbolized  his  social  isolation. 

Brookfield  was  not  made  for  self-pity,  but  there 
came  upon  him  to-night  an  overwhelming  sense  of  the 
distress  which  his  perverse  course  had  brought  upon 
those  dearest  to  him.  He  looked  toward  the  box  in 
which,  as  he  could  see  by  Ellinger's  pose,  the  old 
sport  was  scratching  the  manager's  dog,  more  inter 
ested  in  the  animal  than  in  the  opera.  He  felt  a  keen 
remorse  that,  aside  from  the  boy,  whose  record  was 

14 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

yet  to  be  made,  the  only  escorts  he  had  been  able  to 
provide  for  his  sister  and  his  niece  had  been  this  old 
card-player,  Lew  Ellinger,  and  Hardmuth,  the  sinister 
attorney,  whose  attentions  to  Viola  had  evidently 
been  distasteful.  He  felt  an  equally  keen  regret  when 
he  considered  the  boy,  a  talented  and  promising  young 
architect  just  turned  twenty,  and  reflected  that  but 
for  the  blighting  profession  to  which  he  had  himself 
been  so  devoted,  he  might  now  be  the  father  of  such 
a  boy  and  the  husband  of  the  woman,  serene  and 
stately,  whom  the  boy  called  mother. 

The  finale  of  the  opera  rang  out  in  vocal  volume 
and  flared  through  brass  and  reed,  stirring  in  Brook- 
field  a  little  of  that  militant  resolve  which  sometimes 
rises  Phcenixlike  from  the  flame  of  remorse.  There 
was  the  agitato  of  the  conductor's  baton,  the  sudden 
roll  of  the  timbrels,  the  long  note  of  principals  and 
chorus,  and  the  drop-curtain  fell,  displaying  its  wood 
ed  scene  of  grazing  sheep  and  watching  shepherd, 
lake  and  distant  hills.  The  great  sunburst  in  the 
dome  shone  out,  the  audience  fluttered  to  its  feet. 
Brookfield,  undecided  and  irresolute,  passed  through 
the  lobby,  with  its  faded  photographs,  to  the  side 
walk,  and  signalled  for  his  automobile. 


II 

THE  dining-room  at  Jack  Brookfield's  was  nearly 
square  in  form,  and  larger  than  most  city  din 
ing-rooms  even  in  a  land  of  generous  domestic  archi 
tecture. 

One  side  of  the  room  was  half  filled  by  a  stately 
mantel -piece,  not  too  floridly  carved,  of  old  marble 
brought  from  an  Italian  palace.  A  man  of  Brook- 
field's  height,  by  stooping,  could  walk  into  the  fire 
place  ;  the  average  girl,  like  Viola,  for  instance,  might 
stand  erect  in  it.  Over  the  mantel  and  reaching  to 
the  ceiling  there  was  the  picture  of  a  moonlit  sea 
built  into  the  trim.  Near  this  a  dependent  cross- 
timber  of  the  ceiling  hid  the  electric  lamps,  whose 
rays  fell  upon  painted  sky  and  water  with  luminous 
brilliance  and  by  their  reflection  gave  to  the  room  the 
mellowed  light  which  was  its  only  illumination. 

Brookfield  had  left  orders  for  the  supper,  and  when 
the  party  arrived  from  the  theatre  the  plates  were  laid 
for  the  expected  guests;  each  plate,  with  its  flanking 
outriders  of  silver  and  ivory  and  glass,  picked  out 
from  the  dull  mahogany  with  its  individual  square  of 
Belgium  lace.  On  the  rich  centrepiece  of  the  same 
material  lay  a  modest  bank  of  red  roses. 

In  any  department  of  taste  Brookfield  was  either 
too  sensitive  or  too  well  informed  to  offend  by  any 

16 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

sign  of  ostentation.  The  flowers  were  just  enough; 
the  glassware  promised  only  Apollinaris  and  cham 
pagne;  the  forks  prophesied  a  simple  and  digestible 
supply.  Old  Harvey,  Brookfield's  colored  pantry 
man  and  nocturnal  chef,  stood  by,  a  smiling  guarantor 
of  culinary  excellence. 

As  the  four  men  waited  the  arrival  of  the  ladies  in 
the  library  during  that  moment  of  unavoidable  delay 
which  always  occurs  on  such  occasions,  Lew  Ellinger 
found  time  to  leave  them  and  join  Harvey  in  the  din 
ing-room.  A  stranger  uninformed  of  the  unblendable 
property  of  the  color-line  South  of  the  Ohio  might  have 
fallen  into  the  error  of  supposing  that  Ellinger  and  Har 
vey  belonged  to  the  same  brotherhood.  No  word  was 
spoken,  but  as  the  old  bon  vivant  lifted  his  left  hand, 
with  the  first  two  ringers  slightly  crooked  and  the 
thumb  at  a  sufficient  elevation,  Harvey  said,  "Yes, 
suh;  yes,  suh,"  twice,  and  then  again  in  mystic  and 
lulling  repetition  as  he  handed  Lew  a  Liliputian 
tumbler  and  a  decanter  without  the  stopper.  As 
Ellinger  poured  the  dark,  red  fluid  into  the  glass 
with  the  measured  accuracy  of  a  practised  pharmacian 
watching  his  graduate,  he  said: 

"You  may  put  this  bottle  right  in  front  of  me  at 
the  supper-table,  Harvey." 

"Yes,  suh." 

"I've  quit  flirting  with  that  giddy  stuff  years  ago." 

"Yes,  suh." 

Whether  it  was  the  recollection  of  this  permanent 
and  enforced  separation  or  his  failure  to  take  the  glass 
of  water  which  Harvey  handed  him,  there  came  into 
Ellinger's  eyes  a  gentle  moisture.  He  removed  it 

17 


THE  WITCHING   HOUR 

with  a  needlessly  sheer  handkerchief  which  he 
found  in  his  left  cuff  after  a  fluttering  search  else 
where. 

Ellinger  heard  himself  inquired  for  in  the  next 
room.  There  was  the  hum  of  women's  voices  min 
gling  with  the  deeper  tones  of  the  men,  and  he  had 
just  time  to  meet  the  party  at  the  doorway.  With 
a  facile  mendacity  that  deceived  nobody,  Lew 
said: 

"I've  inspected  everything,  Jack,  and  it's  perfect. 
Ladies,  we  are  to  be  congratulated." 

"What  a  beautiful  room!"  Helen  exclaimed,  as  they 
entered  the  dining-room. 

Brookfield  deferred  the  compliment  to  her  son. 

' '  Yours  ? ' '  Mrs.  Whipple  exclaimed,  afresh .  ' '  Why, 
Clay,  dear!" 

"There's  one  somewhat  like  it  in  a  chateau  in 
Tours,"  the  boy  confessed;  "it's  pretty  hard,  mother, 
to  be  entirely  original."  Then  Jack  came  to  his  as 
sistance. 

"Clay's  problem  here  was  to  follow  his  Touraine 
model,  without  the  height  of  the  original,  and  not 
have  the  room  seem  squat.  I  think  he  answered  it 
by  the  refinement  and  number  of  the  cross-beams; 
but  however  he  did  it  he  answered  it  satisfactorily, 
and  that's  sufficient  success  for  a  broiler." 

Hardmuth's  laugh,  which  he  offered  as  a  recognition 
of  Jack's  pleasantry,  was  a  too  rasping  enforcement 
of  it,  and  turned  an  intended  compliment  into  seem 
ing  criticism.  Clay  frowned  petulantly,  but  Brook- 
field,  with  a  counterpointing  tact  which  was  a  marked 
possession  of  his,  continued : 

18 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"And  I'm  going  to  put  the  distinguished  architect 
on  my  right." 

"Not  Helen?"  his  sister  inquired. 

"I  want  Helen  where  I  can  look  at  her."  And 
Brookfield  cast  an  explanatory  glance  toward  the 
boy  that  would  have  revealed  the  situation  to  a 
mother  much  less  intuitive  than  Helen  Whipple,  who 
already  divined  the  rivalry  between  Hardmuth  and 
her  son  and  was  grateful  for  Jack's  sympathy. 

"We're  seven,  aren't  we?"  Jack  hurried  on. 

"We — are — seven,"  Lew  recited,  in  labored  repeti 
tion,  with  mildly  literary  enjoyment  of  possible  quo 
tation. 

"And  seven  into  sixty  goes  eight  times  and  a  half," 
Brookfield  said,  indicating  the  outline  of  the  round 
table  as  he  drew  out  his  watch. 

"Into  sixty?"  Mrs.  Campbell  asked.  She  always 
needed  a  guidebook  when  conversing  with  her  brother, 
who  was  wont  to  tease  her.  Ignoring  her  question,  he 
fixed  his  look  on  the  dial  over  which  his  thumb  picked 
out  the  points. 

"Assume  that  I'm  standing  at  twelve  o'clock,  Clay 
will  sit  eight  minutes  to  my  right,  you  will  be  two 
minutes  of  two,  dear  Alice,  and  Mr.  Ellinger  will  be 
three  -  three.  Helen,  will  you  take  that  chair  near 
five  o'clock?  Mr.  Hardmuth  will  sit  at  seven,  and 
that  leaves  Viola  between  Mr.  Hardmuth  and  Clay, 
at  about  two  minutes  of  nine." 

' '  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that  ?"  Ellinger  beamed, 
in  mediocre  admiration,  as  he  found  his  chair  between 
the  two  older  women.  "Isn't  that  just  like  him?" 

Helen  remembered  that  it  was. 

19 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"As  like  him  as  two  peas,"  Ellinger  rambled  on, 
inconsequently.  "Jack  turns  everything  into  a  dia 
gram.  I  saw  him  draw  an  after-dinner  speech  once 
on  a  table-cloth.  Yes,  sir  —  draw  it,  and  it  was  a 
blamed  good  speech — but  to  look  at  it — reminded  me 
of  a  dog's  pedigree  exactly." 

Helen  would  have  understood  the  diagram  quite 
as  clearly  as  she  understood  Lew's  similes,  but  she 
recalled  without  assistance  that  sculptor-like  quality 
in  Jack  of  mentally  seeing  all  things,  tangible  or  in 
tangible,  in  geometric  plan. 

"This  affectation  of  density  concerning  the  place 
of  honor  doesn't  deceive  you  and  me,  Miss  Viola,  does 
it?"  Hardmuth  asked,  as  they  sat  down.  "We  know 
it's  to  the  right  of  the  lady." 

"Uncle  Jack  selected  Mrs.  Whipple  as  the  lady  to 
sit  opposite  him,  and  Mr.  Ellinger's  at  her  right,"  she 
replied. 

"There's  no  lady  opposite  me,  Viola,"  her  uncle 
corrected;  "our  disposition  of  seven  leaves  that  a 
vacant  spot,  as  you  see.  It  symbolizes  the  tragedy 
of  a  bachelor's  life." 

"He  means  one  of  the  tragedies,"  Ellinger  stage- 
whispered  to  Helen,  in  mock  consolation. 

"Exactly,"  added  Hardmuth,  from  her  left.  "That 
tragedy  pose  of  Mr.  Brookfield's  is  what  men  in  my 
business  call  an  'alibi.'" 

"And  may  I  ask,  Mr.  Hardmuth,  what  men  in 
your  business  do?" 

"Men  in  his  business  are  the  awful  prosecuting  at 
torneys  of  this  country,"  Ellinger  answered,  warn- 
ingly. 

20 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

•'You  see  the  beauty  of  my  method,  Mrs.  Whipple," 
Jack  remarked,  sagely.  "Seating  you  between  Mr. 
Hardmuth  and  a  questionable  person  like  Mr.  Ellinger 
is  what  I  call  '  tempering  justice  writh  mercy. ' ' 

"Do  you  understand  what  they're  talking  about?" 
Viola's  mother  asked,  helplessly. 

"I  try  not  to,"  Helen  answered,  smiling  at  Jack's 
metaphor. 

"Here's  something,  my  dear  sister,  really  addressed 
to  your  comprehension."  And  Brookfield  indicated 
the  cup  Harvey  had  just  put  on  Mrs.  Campbell's 
plate. 

"I  think  it's  gumbo,"  Ellinger  whispered  to  Helen 
— "chicken  gumbo  strained — this  old  darky  beats  the 
world  at  it — just  enough  of  everything — taste  it — 
see  ?  Notice  how  you  get  the  chicken  and  the  celery 
and  the  pepper  and  the  gumbo  and  the  salt  and  the 
consomme^  each  one  answerin'  like  a  roll-call  in  a 
bible-class — ain't  it  perfect?" 

Ellinger's  voice  seemed  to  fit  in  with  the  half-light 
of  the  room,  the  old  finish  of  the  furniture,  and  the 
ivory  tint  of  the  doilies.  It  was  the  voice  of  a  vin 
tage — a  voice  that  could  have  issued  only  from  that 
genial,  ruddy  face  whose  permeating  good-nature  was 
the  compensation,  and  perhaps  the  product,  of  its 
dulness.  Helen  remembered  Lew  Ellinger  in  his 
early  forties,  more  than  twenty  years  before,  when 
the  hair,  now  white,  carried  only  a  tinge  of  gray  at 
the  temples  and  the  short  mustache  was  black.  She 
remembered  his  clothes.  That  had  been  an  epoch  of 
wide  braid  and  silk  facings  in  men's  wardrobes.  She 
remembered  being  told  that  it  was  a  point  of  pride 

21 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

with  Lew  never  to  be  seen  without  a  fresh  pink  in  his 
button-hole.  He  was  wearing  a  pink  to-night.  The 
voice  had  been  mellow  in  those  days.  It  was  now  al 
most  demoralizing  in  its  suggestion  of  creature  com 
forts,  in  its  muffled,  oily,  and  smoky  familiarity. 
Helen  recalled  Ellinger's  reputation  of  that  olden 
time  —  "a  perfect  gentleman,  reliably  punctilious  in 
all  circumstances  as  long  as  a  lady  did  not  forget 
herself" — despite  which  reassurement  from  the  pass 
ing  biographer  grandma  had  not  permitted  mother 
to  go  driving  with  Mr.  Ellinger.  And  here  he  was  to 
night,  smiling  to  Helen  herself  in  quite  disappointing 
harmlessness,  his  glowing  face  with  its  keen  little 
eyes  of  blue  presenting  all  the  colors  of  an  American 
flag. 

Through  the  mist  of  her  "wandering  attention  Helen 
retrieved  his  voice  and  laid  hold  again  of  its  message. 

" — And  then  he  varnishes  the  inside  of  the  tomato 
with  hot  paraffin,  lets  it  cool,  and  puts  the  ice-cream 
and  the  muskmelon  inside  of  it,"  Ellinger  was  saying. 

Was  he  still  talking  of  Harvey  ? 

"And  how  long  have  you  known  him,  Mr.  Ellinger  ?" 
Helen  reconnoitred. 

"Why,  he  cooked  for  Jack's  father." 

Harvey,  of  course. 

"Doesn't  it  seem  good  to  you,  Mrs.  Whipple,  to 
get  back  to  Kentucky  and  some  real  cooking?" 

"It's  wonderfully  restful  to  be  in  the  old  home 
again." 

"But  the  cooking?"  Ellinger  pleaded. 

"Philadelphia  has  some  pride  in  that  field." 

"I  know  it,"  Ellinger  admitted.     "I  remember  eat- 

22 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

ing  my  first  oyster-crabs  Newburg  in  a  little  red-brick 
hotel— the  old  Belleville." 

"Bellevue,"  Helen  corrected. 

"I  meant  Bellevue."  And  once  more  Lew's  mem 
ory  led  him  to  revel  in  the  description  of  a  menu, 
this  time  the  one  that  had  framed  the  hallowed  baby 
crabs. 

A  term  of  special  succulent  stress  caught  the  ear  of 
Mrs.  Campbell,  Lew's  other  neighbor,  and  drew  from 
her  an  inquiry.  Mrs.  Campbell's  sympathy  with  the 
gastronomic  tastes  of  the  old  sport  was  less  feigned 
than  Helen's,  and  Lew  lived  again  the  joy  of  the  con 
noisseur  over  the  phantom  banquet  he  spread  for 
her  imagination  in  the  vanished  room  of  the  famous 
old  hostelry. 

Through  the  courses  of  terrapin  and  plover,  as 
Harvey  served  them,  Ellinger  talked  with  the  fluency 
of  the  amateur,  sometimes  to  one,  more  frequently 
to  six,  his  throaty  tones  caressingly  lubricating  his 
theme,  and  convincing  almost  the  least  sanguinary 
that  the  bonne  bouche  of  this  repast  was  the  brain  of 
the  plover.  This  was  secured,  Lew  explained,  by 
holding  the  plover's  severed  head  by  its  bill  and  nip 
ping  one's  front  teeth  through  the  paper-shell  skull. 
His  illustration  of  this  incisive  process,  and  the 
luscious  though  scarcely  audible  inhalation  that  was 
an  unavoidable  part  of  it,  sent  little  shivers  over 
Viola's  shoulders.  Ellinger,  temporarily  estopped  of 
speech,  pointed  to  the  girl's  face,  tensely  awry  in 
mimetic  contemplation  of  his  own,  and  the  general 
laugh  released  her  from  her  auto-hypnosis. 

Aside  from  their  occasional  attention  to  such  com- 

23 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR 

pelling  demonstrations  as  this,  Helen  found  her 
thoughts  rambling  leisurely.  Hardmuth  was  notice 
ably  engrossed  in  Viola,  and  his  perfunctory  asides 
to  herself  marked  only  the  moments  of  general  com 
ment. 

How  unlike  this  table-talk  had  been  that  which 
Helen  Whipple  had  known  during  the  past  twenty 
years!  There  came  into  her  mental  vision  in  easy 
and  blending  succession  pictures  of  the  breakfast 
and  dinner  table,  of  the  little  dining-room  in  the 
red-brick,  rectangular  dwelling  at  Germantown,  in 
which  she  and  Dr.  Whipple  had  lived  during  the 
early  years  of  their  marriage;  of  her  lonely  vigils 
there  as  the  doctor's  increasing  practice  in  the  city 
called  him  from  the  pleasant  suburb;  Clay's  nur 
sery  years,  when  the  breakfast  had  been  devoted 
to  the  doctor's  morning  paper  and  to  her  care  of 
the  china  within  reach  of  the  infant  missiles;  then 
the  staid  and  formal  house  in  Philadelphia  into 
which  came  the  reflected  anxiety  of  the  busy  physi 
cian,  the  domestic  communion  unhappily  abridged  by 
his  professional  programme  and  interrupted  by  calls 
telephonic  and  personal.  Only  the  sober,  the  serious, 
the  dutiful  side  of  living — a  long,  prosaic  period  of 
unmitigated  strain  and  stress. 

Looking  across  the  table  at  Jack,  what  a  contrast 
she  found  in  his  amiable  and  expressive  countenance 
to  the  tense  and  severe  visage  of  her  late  husband! 
Brookfield's  face  was  very  different  from  the  same 
face,  as  she  remembered  it,  in  its  early  manhood,  and 
yet  the  difference  was  one  for  which  she  had  been 
not  unprepared.  As  she  realized  how  often  in  the  in- 

24 


THE  WITCHING   HOUR 

tervening  time  she  had  permitted  her  mind  to  dwell 
upon  this  earlier  suitor  she  felt  a  self-accusing  sense 
of  disloyalty  to  the  father  of  the  boy  now  sitting  at 
his  right.  She  was  startled  to  find  that  her  feeling  of 
ease  and  relaxation  in  her  present  situation  was  due 
not  entirely  to  either  the  absence  of  domestic  care  or 
the  regained  associations  of  her  girlhood.  Much  of 
the  purring  comfort  of  her  position  was  caused  by  the 
proximity  of  this  powerful  man,  who  had  somehow 
and  without  communication  never  been  quite  absent 
from  the  penumbra  of  her  thought.  What  compan 
ionship  there  was  now  in  his  very  glance! 

Brookfield  himself,  almost  silent  between  his  sister, 
who  was  analyzing  recipes  with  Ellinger  on  one  side, 
and  Helen's  boy,  who  was  hovering  a  youthful  pro 
tectorate  over  Viola  on  the  other  side,  found  amuse 
ment  in  telegraphing  to  Helen  a  mental  comment 
upon  it  all.  Under  that  heavy  and  apparently  phleg 
matic  mask  Helen  could  see  the  play  of  his  thoughts 
like  summer  lightning  behind  an  evening  cloud-bank 
— the  veriest  ghost  of  a  smile  from  one  corner  of  the 
mouth,  the  slightest  drooping  of  an  eyelid  at  some 
banality,  a  suggestive  uplift  of  eyebrow  doing  service 
for  inquiry,  an  indescribable  accent  of  glance  that 
conveyed  assent. 

Helen's  quiet  enjoyment  of  the  implicit  communica 
tion  was  interrupted  by  her  sudden  recognition  of  and 
astonishment  at  the  fact  that  Brookfield's  facial  play 
was  a  running  commentary  upon  her  own  inmost 
thought,  and  then,  as  she  felt  herself  flushing  beneath 
this  consciousness,  there  was  just  a  noticeable  com 
pression  of  Brookfield's  lips  in  the  reassuring  audacity 

25 


THE  WITCHING   HOUR 

of  a  phantom  caress,  after  which,  in  more  overt  com 
munication,  he  lifted  his  glass  and  smilingly,  though 
silently,  drank  to  her. 

This  last  act  caught  the  attention  of  Ellinger,  ever 
watchful  for  any  legitimate  excuse,  and  he  roughly 
led  the  chorus  which  voiced  less  intimately  Brook- 
field's  sentiment: 

"To  our  fair  and  honored  guest." 

Shortly  afterward,  when  the  party  had  again  scat 
tered  its  attention,  Helen  found  Jack's  eyes  saying: 
"Wouldn't  this  have  been  much  better,  after  all — 
this  cosiness,  this  intimacy,  tranquillity,  and  warmth  ? 
Wasn't  it  all  a  vanity,  a  vexation  of  spirit :  the  years 
of  strident  effort  in  the  aggressive  charities,  the  so 
cieties  for  civic  betterment,  and  all  the  altruistic, 
self-appointed  turmoil  since  we  parted?"  Again 
Brookfield  lifted  his  glass  as  Helen's  look  of  waver 
ing  indecision  seemed  to  him  confession. 

There  was  a  second  observation  by  Ellinger  and  a 
general  laugh  following  some  pleasantry  of  his  at 
Brookfield's  expense. 

Jo,  the  colored  hall-boy  in  Brookfield's  establish 
ment,  appeared  in  the  doorway  leading  from  the  li 
brary. 

"Yes?"  inquired  Brookfield. 

"Mr.  Denning,  suh,"  said  Jo. 

Brookfield  begged  the  company  to  excuse  him  a 
moment,  then  rose  from  the  table  and  followed  Jo. 


Ill 

WELL,  Jo  ?"  Brookfield  looked  at  the  negro  boy 
a  bit  impatiently.  On  those  rare  occasions 
when  the  house  was  dark,  Jo  was  endowed  with  suf 
ficient  vicarious  discretion  to  turn  most  any  applicant 
away. 

"Mr.  Denning,  suh,"  Jo  repeated,  with  slightly  jus 
tifying  emphasis. 

Brookfield  hesitated,  and  then:  "Ask  Mr.  Denning 
to  come  up,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  suh."    The  boy  left  on  his  errand. 

Brookfield  moved  a  few  steps  after  the  boy,  as  if 
with  the  intent  to  revoke  his  order;  and  then  as  a 
more  definite  plan  occurred  to  him  he  called  to  the 
group  about  the  supper-table: 

"Lew — I  say,  Lew!  Won't  you  ladies  excuse  Mr. 
Ellinger  a  moment?" 

A  chorus  of  assent,  not  necessarily  uncompliment 
ary,  came  in  reply,  and  Ellinger  joined  Brookfield. 

"Want  to  see  me?" 

Brookfield  took  Lew  by  the  elbow  and  led  him  a 
few  steps  from  the  doorway  and  beyond  the  line  of 
vision  of  his  guests. 

"Tom  Denning's  here  —  he  expects  a  game.  My 
sister  and  Mrs.  Whipple  object  to  the  pasteboards, 
so  don't  mention  it  before  them." 

3  27 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"Not  a  word,"  answered  the  discreet  old  sport; 
"but  Tom" — he  nodded  toward  the  hall  door — 
"what  of  him?" 

"I'll  attend  to  Tom,"  said  Brookfield;  "you  re 
join  the  ladies." 

"Good." 

As  Lew  regained  the  doorway  of  the  dining-room 
Denning  entered  from  the  hallway. 

"Hello,  Lew!"  called  the  new-comer. 

Ellinger  paused  in  helpless  embarrassment  between 
his  duty  and  this  convivial  interruption. 

"Go  on,"  said  Brookfield,  imperatively,  and  Lew 
obeyed. 

Denning,  astonished  at  the  sight  of  Ellinger  in 
evening  attire  and  by  the  formal  front  of  the  pro 
prietor,  said: 

"What  have  you  got  to-night — young  Rockefeller?" 

"Some  ladies — "  Brookfield  started  to  explain, 
and  paused,  frowning,  interrupted  by  the  leer  on  Den- 
ning's  face.  And  then  he  added,  "My  sister — and  her 
daughter — and  a  lady  friend  of  hers."  There  was  a 
rebuke  in  the  measured  authority  of  the  utterance. 

"No  game?"  Denning  asked,  disappointedly. 

"Not  until  they  go." 

The  young  man,  who  had  changed  his  position  so 
as  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  group  in  the  next  room, 
exclaimed  with  that  sudden  alteration  of  mood  char 
acteristic  of  the  immature  mind  in  the  presence  of 
new  toys: 

"Oh,  chafing-dish!" 

"They've  been  to  the  opera,  and  I  had  Harvey 
brew  them  some  terrapin." 

28 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"My  luck,"  Denning  complained. 

"No,  I  think  there's  some  left,"  Brookfield  con 
soled;  and  as  an  expression  of  relief  passed  over 
Denning's  countenance,  Jack  felt  a  sense  of  shame 
that  his  victims  held  among  their  number  one  so 
simple  as  the  man  before  him.  Denning  was  an  ex 
ample  of  a  type  numerically  increasing — that  waste 
ful  intermediate  generation  between  shirt-sleeves  and 
shirt-sleeves;  the  pampered  son  of  a  father  apochry- 
phally  opulent.  The  class  to  which  he  belonged  had 
not  yet  arrived  at  the  distinction  of  imperial  denuncia 
tion,  and  Tom  was  an  only  child ;  but  had  there  been 
a  sister  the  family  could  have  been  reconciled  to  seeing 
her  a  foreign  princess. 

As  Brookfield  regarded  his  guest  there  passed  vague 
ly  before  his  mind  a  picture  of  the  scheme  of  things  so 
fashioned  that  by  a  law  of  nature  it  seemed  one 
species  should  feed  upon  and  devour  another.  Then, 
in  quick  realization  of  his  own  inability  to  revise  that 
law  in  the  time  now  at  his  disposal,  he  added,  in  an 
easy,  patronizing  protection: 

"I'm  going  to  take  a  long  chance,  Tom,  and  intro 
duce  you  to  these  ladies,  only  I  want  you  not  to  say 
anything  before  them  about  poker  or  any  other 
game." 

Denning  protested.  "Why,  I  thought  you  said 
your  sister — " 

"I  did,"  Brookfield  replied,  his  tone  slightly  hostile. 

"Well,  she's  on,  isn't  she?" 

Brookfield  nodded.  "But  she  doesn't  like  it,  and 
my  niece — my  niece — doesn't  like  it." 

There  was  something  in  Brookfield's  repetition  of 

29 


THE  WITCHING   HOUR 

"my  niece"  that  caused  Denning  to  stand  at  atten 
tion.  If  his  early  schooling  had  been  received  in  a 
military  academy  he  would  have  saluted.  During  the 
pause  that  followed  old  Harvey  entered. 

"I'se  made  some  coffee,  Marse  Jack;  will  you  have 
it  in  the  dining-room  or  here,  suh?" 

"Ill  ask  the  ladies." 

"How  are  you,  Harvey?"  Denning  grinned  at  the 
old  servant. 

"Marse  Denning." 

"You've  got  some  terrapin  left  for  Mr.  Denning, 
Harvey?"  Brookfield  asked,  as  he  passed  from  the 
room. 

"Yes,  suh,"  Harvey  answered;  then  again,  to  Den 
ning,  "Yes,  suh." 

"They  left  some  of  the  rum,  I  hope  ?"  said  Denning. 

The  old  darky  laughed. 

"Couldn't  empty  my  ice-box  in  one  evening,  Marse 
Denning."  And  then,  with  a  sudden  change  of  man 
ner,  as  he  looked  toward  the  dining-room,  he  added, 
deferentially,  "The  ladies  gettin'  up,  suh." 

Brookfield  returned. 

"Harvey." 

"Yes,  suh." 

"The  ladies  will  have  their  coffee  in  here." 

"Yes,  suh." 

As  the  ladies  were  already  following,  Brookfield 
crossed,  warningly,  to  Denning  and  introduced  him. 

"Alice,  this  is  my  friend  Mr.  Denning — my  sister 
Mrs.  Campbell." 

Alice  nodded  to  the  young  man  now  awkwardly 
conscious  of  his  tweeds. 

3° 


THE  WITCHING   HOUR 

Helen  was  saying  to  Viola,  about  whom  she  had 
put  her  arm,  "I  never  take  coffee  even  after  dinner, 
and  at  this  hour — never." 

Jack  finished  his  introduction  of  Denning,  and,  re 
solved  that  there  should  be  no  misleading  opportunity 
for  impolitic  commonplace,  he  took  the  young  man 
by  the  arm  and  led  him  toward  the  dining-room,  say 
ing  as  they  went: 

"Mr.  Denning 's  just  left  the  foundry,  and  he  is  very 
hungry." 

"And  thirsty,"  Denning  added,  with  prompt  seiz 
ure  of  the  chance. 

"Yes,  and  thirsty,"  Jack  courageously  accepted. 
"Uncle  Harvey  is  going  to  save  his  life."  And  with 
dissembling  heartiness  he  pushed  Denning  from  the 
room. 

"The  foundry?"  Alice  inquired,  with  characteristic 
naivete1. 

"Never  did  a  day's  work  in  his  life,"  Jack  smiled. 
"Why,  that's  Tom  Denning." 

"Tom  Denning  is  the  name  of  the  big  race-horse," 
Viola  volunteered,  from  one  of  her  fields  of  special 
information. 

"Yes,"  answered  Jack,  "this  fellow  is  named  after 
the  race-horse." 

"What  does  he  do?"  asked  Helen. 

"His  father."  Brookfield  explained:  "Father's  in 
the  packing  business  in  Kansas  City — this  fellow  has 
four  men  shovelling  money  away  from  him  so  he  can 
breathe." 

"Oh,  Jack!"  Alice  exclaimed,  in  amused  protest. 

"Yes,"  insisted  Jack,  "I'm  one  of  them."  Then, 

31 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR 

in  quick  recovery  from  this  inadvertent  admission  of 
his  trade,  he  added,  as  he  paused  on  the  threshold, 
"You'll  find  cigarettes  in  that  box." 

"Jack!"  Mrs.  Campbell  rose  from  her  chair  with 
that  extravagance  of  self-defence  sometimes  so  peril 
ously  near  confession. 

"Not  you,  Alice  dear,"  said  Jack,  with  apologetic 
stress  almost  equally  disclosing. 

"Well,  certainly  not  for  me,  Uncle  Jack,"  Viola 
answered,  honestly,  as  he  looked  toward  her  and  Helen. 

"Of  course,  not  you,  dear." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Brookfield,"  Helen  deduced,  in  a 
fraternal  pleasantness  which  Jack  remembered  so  well. 

Mrs.  Campbell,  as  usual,  one  step  behind  the  mental 
procession  whenever  it  departed  from  the  heaviest 
marching  order,  came  to  the  defence  of  their  guest. 

"My  dear  brother,  you  confuse  the  Kentucky  ladies 
with  some  of  your  Eastern  friends." 

"Careful,  Alice,  careful.  Helen  lived  in  the  East 
twenty  years,  remember." 

"But  even  my  husband  didn't  smoke." 

"No?" 

"Never  in  his  life." 

"In — his — life,"  Jack  repeated,  with  malicious  an 
alysis.  "Why  make  such  a  pessimistic  distinction?" 

"Jack!"  his  sister  gasped  again,  in  fluttering  ex 
postulation;  and  then,  as  she  came  to  him,  murmured 
plaintively  in  an  audible  undertone,  "How  can  you 
say  a  thing  like  that?" 

"She's  the  man's  widow,"  Brookfield  offered,  in 
sympathetic  opacity  to  Alice.  "I've  got  to  say  it  if 
any  one  does." 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

Harvey  turned  the  trend  of  conversation  by  his  ap 
pearance  with  the  tray  of  coffee. 

"Mr.  Denning  got  his  tortoise,  has  he,  Uncle  Har 
vey?" 

"He's  got  the  same  as  we  all  had,  Marse  Jack;  yes, 
suh."  The  old  darky  chuckled. 

"I'll  take  it,  Uncle  Harvey."  Jack  referred  to  the 
cup  that  Helen  had  declined.  "I  think  three  or  four 
of  them  might  help  this  head  of  mine." 

Brookfield  had  confessed  once  or  twice  earlier  in 
the  evening  to  a  headache,  and  his  sister  now  said 
to  him,  with  an  inflection  that  indicated  a  repeated 
offer: 

"Why  don't  you  let  Viola  cure  vour  head 
ache?"  " 

"Yes,  Uncle  Jack,  do."  Viola  put  down  her  cup 
as  she  spoke. 

"No,  the  coffee  will  fix  it,  I'm  sure." 

"Sit  here  while  you  drink  it."  Viola  pushed  an 
easy-chair  from  the  end  of  the  table. 

"No,  no,  Viola;  it  isn't  bad  enough  for  that.  I'll 
conserve  your  mesmeric  endowment  for  a  real  occa 
sion." 

Brookfield  took  the  contents  of  the  demi-tasse  at  a 
swallow. 

"Just  to  please  me,"  his  niece  persisted. 

Jack  touched  her  caressingly  under  the  chin,  and, 
shaking  his  finger  in  concentrated  accusation,  lost 
upon  all  his  hearers  excepting  Helen,  said,  "I  don't 
want  to  spoil  your  awful  stories." 

Brookfield  rejoined  the  gentlemen  in  the  dining- 
room,  where  Harvey  was  passing  the  cigars. 

33 


THE  WITCHING   HOUR 

Left  to  themselves,  the  ladies  began  to  evince  that 
personal  disposition  toward  ease  which  marks  the 
absence  of  self-consciousness,  even  self-consciousness 
so  slight  as  that  invited  by  the  presence  of  the  most 
intimate  male  relative. 

Viola  curled  into  one  corner  of  the  old  colonial 
sofa  that  raked  diagonally  from  the  fireplace.  She 
had  taken  from  the  table  an  uncut  magazine  and  a 
huge  tusk  of  ivory,  shaped  at  its  broader  end  into  a 
spatulate  paper-cutter.  Her  mother  sought  an  easy- 
chair,  regretfully  expostulating  that  she  had  read 
somewhere  that  it  was  wise  to  stay  on  one's  feet  for 
twenty  minutes  after  each  meal.  Helen  leaned  on 
the  back  of  another  chair  in  restful  contemplation  of 
the  room  which  she  had  seen  but  hurriedly  in  her 
first  passage  through  it  before  the  supper.  She  was 
as  yet  unable  to  decide  which  object  or  group  of  ob 
jects  gave  it  that  quality  of  witchery  of  which  she 
was  becoming  conscious.  Perhaps  it  was  not  the 
room  itself;  rather  it  might  be  the  room  in  combina 
tion  with  the  owner,  of  whose  uncanny  power  and  in 
definite  quality  she  was  singularly  aware.  In  the 
moment  her  mind  had  moved  on  its  circle  about  this 
central  idea,  and  by  a  double  association  the  question 
seemed  to  utter  itself: 

"Is  Viola  a  magnetic  healer,  too?" 

"Oh  no,"  Viola  said,  quickly,  although  the  ques 
tion  had  been  put  to  her  mother. 

"Yes — a  remarkable  one,"  the  mother  replied. 

"Only  headaches,  Mrs.  Whipple,"  the  girl  ex 
plained,  "and  those  I  crush  out  of  my  victims." 

"I  remember  Jack  used  to  have  a  wonderful 
34 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

ability  in  that  way  as  a  young  man,"  Helen 
said. 

Viola  smiled  in  pretty  insinuation.  "Uncle  Jack 
says  only  with  girls." 

"We  know  better,  don't  we?"  Alice  remarked, 
stolidly,  to  Helen.  Their  guest  nodded,  and  Viola 
resumed : 

"Well,  for  myself,  I'd  rather  have  Uncle  Jack  sit 
by  me  than  any  regular  physician  I  ever  saw." 

"You  mean  if  you  were  ill?"  said  Helen. 

"Of  course." 

"You  must  be  very  clear  with  Mrs.  Whipple  on 
that  point,  Viola,"  said  Mrs.  Campbell,  whose  mental 
baggage- train  was  beginning  to  arrive,  "because  she 
used  to  prefer  your  uncle  Jack  to  sit  by  her  even 
when  she  wasn't  ill."  And  the  lady  smiled,  blandly 
unconscious  that  Viola  had  implied  as  much  some 
minutes  earlier. 

"But  especially  when  ill,  my  dear,"  Helen  ad 
mitted;  and  then,  inquiringly,  to  his  sister,  "Has 
Jack  quit  it?" 

"Yes;  you  know  Jack  went  into  politics  for  a 
while." 

"Did  he?" 

"Yes — local  politics — something  about  the  police 
didn't  please  him — then  he  quit  all  curative  work." 

"Why?" 

"Well,  in  politics  I  believe  there  is  something  un 
pleasant  about  the  word  'healer.' '  This  unpleasant 
condition  had  never  been  quite  clear  to  Mrs.  Campbell. 

"Entirely  different  spelling,"  Viola  suggested. 

Mrs.  Campbell  continued :  "The  papers  joked  about 

35 


THE  WITCHING   HOUR 

his  magnetic  touch.  It  seems  that  the  word  'touch' 
is  also  used  offensively,  so  Jack  dropped  the  whole 
business." 

"And  Viola  inherits  this  magnetic  power?"  said 
Helen. 

"If  one  can  inherit  power  from  an  uncle,"  Mrs. 
Campbell  answered.  On  these  matters  of  genealogy 
she  was  particularly  lucid.  Besides,  Kentucky  had 
given  more  than  proportionate  attention  to  the  in 
tricate  questions  of  breeding. 

"Let  us  say — from  a  family,"  enlarged  Helen. 

"That  is  even  more  generous,"  Mrs.  Campbell  an 
swered,  more  wisely  than  she  knew.  "But  Viola  is 
like  her  uncle  Jack  in  svery  way  that  a  girl  may  re 
semble  a  man — horses  and  boats  and  every  kind  of 
personal  risk." 

"I'm  proud  of  it,"  Viola  boasted,  parenthetically. 

"And  Jack  spoils  her." 

"Am  I  spoiled?"    Viola  appealed  to  Mrs.  Whipple. 

Helen's  smile  was  more  comforting  than  the  spoken 
word  of  most  women. 

"But  I  will  say  he  couldn't  love  her  more  if  he 
were  her  own  father,"  Alice  added. 

Helen  found  this  report  of  the  paternal  quality  in 
Jack  strangely  grateful.  She  pressed  against  her 
cheek  the  hand  that  Viola  had  given  her.  That  Jack 
loved  the  girl  in  such  degree  doubled  the  growing 
affection  for  her  which  Clay's  interest  and  the  girl's 
own  attractiveness  had  planted  in  Helen's  heart,  so 
sensitively  maternal. 

Despite  the  fact  that  Viola  in  every  feature  was 
noticeably  unlike  her  uncle,  there  was,  nevertheless, 

36 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

in  the  general  relation  of  the  features  that  evanescent 
something  which  we  call  family  resemblance.  Under 
the  smooth  contour  of  her  decidedly  classical  face 
there  was  manifestly  the  same  modelling  that  under 
lay  Jack's  grim  mask.  That  family  trick  of  level 
glance  which  was  domination  in  the  uncle  was  sim 
ple  sincerity  in  the  girl.  The  vibrant  arch  of  nostril 
and  the  fulness  of  the  lip,  so  dangerously  suggestive 
of  the  sensual  in  the  man,  spelled  only  poetry  and 
affection  in  the  finer  feminine  face.  Viola  was  typi 
cally  and  beautifully  blond — not  of  the  anaemic  and 
bloodless  type,  but  of  that  Olympian  variety  which 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  described  as  "shot  through 
and  through  with  amber  light." 

As  Helen  pressed  the  girl's  hand  she  noticed  in  its 
palm  a  vital  prehension  eminently  kindred  to  Jack's 
touch.  Observing  persons  had  frequently  remarked 
this  quality  in  Brookfield's  hand.  Independent  of  the 
grip  of  muscle,  the  palm  itself  seemed  to  have  some 
moist  and  individual  power  of  cohesion — a  quality  of 
friendliness  and  health  and  magnetism.  Helen  was 
no  student  of  character,  but  the  feminine  sense  of  in 
tuition  was  hers  in  a  marked  degree,  and  it  did  not 
fail  her  now.  She  knew  indubitably  that  the  girl  be 
side  her  was  gifted  with  the  rare  capacity  of  abiding 
loyalty.  She  apprehended  in  some  inexplicable  way 
that  the  girl  was  to  be  for  her  an  ally  in  her  protective 
interest  in  Clay,  who,  seizing  the  first  chance  to  quit 
the  men  in  the  other  room,  had  just  joined  the  ladies. 

"Isn't  this  a  jolly  room,  mother?"  said  the  young 
architect,  indicating  by  a  sweep  of  his  hand  the  hos 
pitable  walls  of  the  library. 

37 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR 

"Beautiful!" 

"Sleeping -apartments  are  what  I  take  pride  in, 
though,"  Clay  continued,  as  he  nodded  upward;  "a 
private  bath  to  every  bedroom,  reading-lamps  just 
over  the  pillows,  individual  telephones  to  the  kitchen." 

"Haven't  you  seen  the  house,  Mrs.  Whipple  ?"  Viola 
interrupted. 

"Not  above  this  floor." 

"Would  it  interest  you?"  Mrs.  Campbell  asked, 
mildly,  and  then  recollecting,  she  added,  apologeti 
cally,  "Why,  what  a  foolish  question — as  though  any 
thing  your  boy  had  done  could  fail  to  interest  you!" 

Mrs.  Campbell  crossed  to  the  dining-room  and  called 
her  brother.  As  Jack  responded  she  turned  to  Helen, 
and  in  a  manner  that  implied  an  opportunity  for 
choice  said,  "Will  I  do  as  your  guide?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Whipple. 

"Well?"  said  Brookfield. 

"I  want  to  show  Helen  over  the  house,"  his  sister 
explained. 

"Very  well,  do  it." 

"The  rooms  are  empty?" 

"Empty?  Of  course,"  Jack  replied,  in  mock  re 
sentment. 

"Don't  be  too  indignant,  my  dear  brother;  they 
are  not  always  empty."  And  then  as  she  turned  to 
Helen  she  explained,  "In  Jack's  house  one  is  liable  to 
find  a  belated  pilgrim  in  any  room." 

Helen,  conscious  of  the  playfulness  which  the  sister 
missed  beneath  Jack's  look,  ventured,  with  contrib 
uting  banter,  "And  a  lady  walking  in  unannounced 
would  be  something  of  a  surprise,  wouldn't  she?" 

38 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"Well,"  answered  Jack,  in  grave  deliberation,  "two 
ladies  would  certainly,  and — 

"Jack!"  interrupted  Alice. 

"My  dear  sister,  they  would,"  Brookfield  protested, 
in  injured  innocence;  and  then,  appealing  to  Helen, 
"Hard  lines  when  the  reputation  of  a  man's  house 
isn't  respected  by  his  own  sister — huh!"  He  stormed 
back  to  the  dining-room,  leaving  his  sister  in  a  haze 
of  perturbation. 

"The  same  Jack,"  said  Helen,  singularly  unhor- 
rified. 

"The  same,"  Alice  assented,  "only  sometimes  I 
think  confirmed  in  his  peculiarities." 

Viola  declined  her  mother's  invitation  to  accom 
pany  them  over  the  upper  part  of  the  house,  and  the 
two  older  ladies  departed,  leaving  Clay  and  her  to 
gether. 


IV 

MRS.  WHIPPLE'S  anxiety  concerning  her  boy  was 
not  without  foundation.  There  were  certain 
weaknesses  in  his  character  that  justified  her  desire  for 
sympathy  and  assistance  in  her  necessarily  waning 
care  of  him.  She  believed  that  his  artistic  tempera 
ment,  and  many  of  the  weaknesses  supposed  to  ac 
company  such  a  temperament,  he  had  inherited  from 
herself.  There  was  a  noticeable  strain  of  his  father, 
however,  which  she  detected  in  the  boy's  ready  and 
almost  fanatical  advocacy  of  any  hopeless  cause  that 
made  its  appeal  to  the  humanities.  He  was  emo 
tional;  unquestionably  much  of  Clay's  decorative 
talent  could  be  attributed  to  this  fact,  but  his 
greatest  danger  also  lay  there.  All  his  life  he  had 
been  subject  to  a  kind  of  intellectual  vertigo,  at 
times  approaching  perilously  to  irresponsibility. 

As  a  boy  of  ten  he  had  leaped  into  the  Schuylkill 
to  save  a  playmate  from  drowning.  Unable  himself 
to  swim  a  stroke,  he  had  only  doubled  the  task  of  the 
competent  rescuers.  At  twelve,  when  an  itinerant  ex- 
horter  was  calling  the  guilty  to  repentance,  and  be 
moaning  the  fact  that  in  all  his  audience  of  sinners 
none  had  the  courage  to  lead  the  penitent  to  the 
altar,  Clay  had  unhesitatingly  accepted  the  call  and 
been  the  first  to  the  bench.  At  sixteen,  after  a  baf- 

40 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

fling  absence  of  four  days,  he  was  discovered  in  Tampa, 
whither  he  had  fled  with  a  regiment  of  Pennsylvania 
volunteers  in  an  almost  inflexible  resolution  to  avenge 
the  destruction  of  the  Maine. 

He  was  peculiarly  amenable  to  suggestion,  to  ap 
proval,  to  rebuke.  These  qualities,  while  they  caused 
the  boy  uncountable  suffering,  also  won  for  him  many 
friends.  The  firm  of  distinguished  architects  with 
which  Brookfield's  invited  influence  had  been  able  to 
place  him  was  already  finding  his  temperament  a 
considerable  asset  in  its  professional  relations  with 
women  clients.  Clay  had  an  almost  feminine  inter 
est  in  the  detail  of  decoration — he  had  an  eye  for  form 
and  color.  That  he  should  fall  in  love  with  the  beau 
tiful  niece-  of  Brookfield  was  an  inevitable  conse 
quence  of  his  association  with  her. 

Left  alone  with  Viola,  Clay  turned  to  her  with  char 
acteristic  impulsiveness  and  said: 

"What  was  Frank  Hardmuth  saying  to  you?" 
"When?"  asked  the  girl,  with  that  Fabian  evasion 
which  is  the  heritage  of  the  sex. 

"At  supper  and  in  the  box  at  the  theatre,  too." 
"Oh,   Frank  Hardmuth,"   she  pouted,   playfully; 
"nobody  pays  any  attention  to  him." 

"I  thought  you  paid  a  good  deal  of  attention  to 
what  he  was  saying." 

"In  the  same  theatre-party  a  girl's  got  to  listen  or 
leave  the  box." 

"Some  persons  listen  to  the  opera." 
"I  told  him  that  was  what  I  wanted  to  do." 
"Was  he  making  love  to  you,  Viola?" 
"I  shouldn't  call  it  that." 
41 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"Would  anybody  else  have  called  it  that  if  they 
had  overheard  it?"  Clay  persisted. 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"Won't  you  tell  me  what  it  was  about?" 

Viola  waited.  There  is  something  so  personal  in 
every  declaration  of  love,  implied  or  direct,  compli 
mentary  or  questionable,  that  a  woman  instinctively 
guards  it,  not  necessarily  as  sacred,  but  with  an  in 
herent  sentimental  economy. 

Viola  was  unpractised  but  not  unequipped. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  ask?"  she  ventured,  diplo 
matically,  beginning  to  feel  the  strain  of  Clay's  si 
lence. 

"I  ask,"  the  boy  said,  promptly,  "because  he  seem 
ed  so  much  in  earnest,  and  because  you  seemed  so 
much  in  earnest." 

"Well?"  questioned  Viola,  still  non-committal. 

"Frank  Hardmuth's  a  fellow  that  will  stand  watch 
ing."  Clay  glared  into  the  dining-room  where  the  ob 
ject  of  his  jealousy  was  seated. 

"He  stood  a  good  deal  to-night,"  Viola  laughed, 
with  a  wish  to  introduce  a  playfulness  into  the  col 
loquy. 

"I  mean,"  Clay  continued,  still  serious,  "that  he 
is  a  clever  lawyer,  and  would  succeed  in  making  a 
girl  commit  herself  in  some  way  to  him  before  she 
knew  it." 

"I  think  that  depends  more  on  the  way  the  girl 
feels."  Viola  rose  and  crossed  the  room  with  an  in 
stinct  of  drawing  the  boy's  attention  from  Hardmuth. 
There  was  an  implied  assurance  in  the  speech  as  Clay 
interpreted  it,  and,  somewiiat  mollified,  he  followed  her. 

42 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"Well,  I  don't  want  you  to  listen  to  Frank  Hard- 
muth  under  the  impression  that  he's  the  only  chance 
in  Kentucky." 

"Why,  Clay  Whipple!"  Viola's  severity  was  a  re 
sentment  of  the  implication  that  she  had  regarded 
Hardmuth  as  a  chance  at  all,  and  was  not  an  at 
tempted  discouragement  of  the  impending  declara 
tion. 

"You  know  very  well  I've  been  courting  you  my 
self,  Viola,  don't  you?" 

"You  haven't,"  the  girl  replied,  smiling  in  frank 
admiration  of  his  directness;  "you've  just  been  com 
ing  around  like  a  big  boy." 

"Have  I  gone  with  any  other  girl  anywhere?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"And  I've  spoken  to  your  uncle  Jack  about  it," 
Clay  continued. 

"To  Uncle  Jack?" 

"Yes." 

"Nobody  told  you  to  speak  to  Uncle  Jack." 

"Mother  did." 

4 '  Your  mother  ? ' '  Viola  asked .  The  increasing  num 
ber  of  Clay's  advisers  gave  the  question  a  disturbing 
importance. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  young  suitor;  "mother's  got 
regular  old-fashioned  ideas  about  boys  and  young 
ladies,  and  she  says,  '  If  you  think  Viola  likes  you,  the 
honorable  thing  is  to  speak  to  her  guardian." 

"Oh,  you  thought  that,  did  you?"  Viola  was  as 
piqued  by  the  secure  assumption  as  she  was  compli 
mented  by  its  persistency.  But  her  tone  only  gave 
determination  to  the  boy. 

43 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"I  certainly  did,"  he  answered. 

"I  can't  imagine  why." 

"I  thought  that  because  you're  Jack  Brookfield's 
niece,  and  nobody  of  his  blood  would  play  a  game 
that  isn't  fair." 

No  phrase  could  have  been  more  unfortunately 
chosen.  Clay  had  meant  to  apply  only  the  college 
boy's  standard  of  fair  play  in  athletics,  a  department 
in  which  Viola  was  not  uninformed.  But  Brookfield's 
profession  had  made  the  family  hectic  upon  all  al 
lusions  to  it.  The  blood  tingled  in  Viola's  cheek. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  always  throw  that  up  to  me; 
it  isn't  our  fault  that  Uncle  Jack's  a  sporting  man." 

"Why,  Viola — I  was  praising  him,"  Clay  said,  im 
pulsively,  sighting  the  forbidden  ground  on  which  he 
had  inadvertently  trod;  and  with  that  sure  fatality 
that  makes  blunder  multiply,  he  added,  "I  think 
your  uncle  Jack's  the  gamest  man  in  Kentucky." 

"Nor  that,  either,"  Viola  said,  forbiddingly;  and 
then,  with  a  surge  of  loyalty  to  the  uncle  whom  she 
could  see  from  where  she  stood,  "I  don't  criticise  my 
uncle  Jack,  but  he's  a  lot  better  man  than  just  a 
fighter  or  a  card-player  —  I  love  him  for  his  big 
heart." 

"  So  do  I.  If  I'd  'a'  thought  you  cared,  I'd  have  said 
you  were  too  much  like  him  at  heart  to  let  a  fellow 
come  a-courting  you  if  you  meant  to  refuse  him — I'd 
have  said  that — and  that  was  all  that  was  in  my  mind 
when  I  asked  about  Prank  Hardmuth."  In  consoling 
abandonment  of  the  issue,  he  continued,  "I  don't 
care  what  Frank  Hardmuth  said,  either,  if  it  wasn't 
personal  that  way." 

44 


THE   WITCHING  HOUR 

"Frank  Hardmuth's  nothing  to  me."  The  girl's 
annoyance  was  reassuring. 

"And  he  won't  be,  will  he?"  Clay  pleaded,  boyishly, 
seating  himself  beside  her  on  the  sofa  and  peering  into 
her  half-averted  face.  "Say  that,  because  I'm  aw 
fully  in  love  with  you." 

"Are  you?"  she  asked,  in  evident  hospitality  for 
the  subject. 

"You  bet  I  am,"  the  boy  responded,  vibrantly — 
"just  tomfool  heels  over  head  in  love  with  you." 

"You  never  said  so." 

"I  never  said  so  because  mother  told  me  that  a 
boy  in  an  architect's  office  had  better  wait  until  he 
was  a  partner.  But  I  can't  wait,  Viola,  if  other  fel 
lows  are  pushing  me  too  hard." 

Viola  apparently  approved  of  the  boy's  initiative, 
for  she  answered : 

"Uncle  Jack  says  you're  a  regular  architect,  if 
there  ever  was  one." 

"It's  what  you  think  that  makes  a  difference  to  me." 

"Well,  I  think  Uncle  Jack  certainly  knows." 

"And  an  architect's  just  as  good  as  a  lawyer,"  Clay 
urged,  with  his  rival  still  in  mind. 

"Every  bit,"  his  sweetheart  acquiesced. 

It  is  possible  that  if  either  or  both  of  the  parties 
had  been  represented  by  attorney  their  understand 
ing  might  have  been  regarded  as  falling  somewhat 
short  of  a  betrothal.  In  the  absence  of  competent 
advisers,  however,  and  perhaps  of  sufficiently  guiding 
experience  or  research,  the  young  people  by  an  un 
spoken  assent,  none  the  less  satisfactory  because  it 
was  tacit,  met  in  an  embrace. 

45 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"Viola!"  the  boy  said,  in  trembling  undertone,  as 
her  head  rested  on  his  shoulder. 

There  are  other  ways  of  becoming  engaged.  The 
process  is  one  so  volatile  that  almost  every  ingredient 
or  contribution,,  whether  of  time  or  place  or  circum 
stance,  alters  its  chemistry.  In  fact,  much  of  the 
charm  that  hallows  that  entire  period  known  as  ' '  the 
engagement"  is  due  to  the  same  unfailing  answer  to 
all  the  experimental  tests  that  may  be  made  by  the 
manifold  reagents  in  love's  laboratory. 

In  promising  exploration  of  at  least  one  other 
route,  Viola  began : 

"I  don't  mind  telling  you  now  he  was  speaking  for 
himself — Frank  Hardmuth." 

"By  Jove!"  Clay  exclaimed,  mistaking  consequence 
for  coincidence.  "On  this  very  night?" 

"Yes." 

"It  seems  like  the  hand  of  Providence  that  I  was 
here." 

One  sure  indication  of  true  love  is  that  the  element 
of  fate  is  so  plainly,  so  early,  discernible. 

"Let's  sit  down." 

Holding  both  her  hands,  Clay  led  the  girl  to  the 
sofa. 

"You've  got  confidence  in  me,  haven't  you?" 

"Yes;  I've  always  said  to  mother,  'Clay  Whipple 
will  make  his  mark  some  day.'  I  should  say  I  have 
confidence  in  you." 

The  boy  laughed  joyously.  There  was  a  framed 
sheepskin  from  the  University  of  Pennsylvania  hang 
ing  in  his  mother's  bedroom,  and  several  letters  of 
approval  from  the  firm  of  architects  with  which  he 

46 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

was  associated,  but  Viola's  last  remark  was  his  real 
diploma.  He  went  on  in  rapid  explanation,  taking 
her  into  almost  conjugal  confidence  as  to  his  pros 
pects. 

"Of  course,  the  big  jobs  pay — things  like  insurance 
buildings;  but  my  heart's  in  domestic  architecture, 
and  if  you  don't  laugh  at  me  I'll  tell  you  some 
thing." 

"Laugh  at  you  about  your  work  and  your  ambi 
tions!  Why,  Clay!" 

"I  do  some  work  on  most  of  the  domestic  interiors 
for  the  firm  already,  and  whenever  I  plan  a  second 
floor  or  staircase  I  can  see  you  plain  as  day  walking 
through  the  rooms  or  saying  good-night  over  the 
balusters." 

"Really?     You  mean  in  your  mind." 

"No,  with  my  eyes.  Domestic  architecture  is  the 
most  poetic  work  a  man  can  get  into  outside  of  down 
right  poetry  itself." 

"it  must  be  if  you  can  see  it  all  that  way,"  Viola 
assented,  not  without  some  bewilderment. 

"Every  room,"  Clay  continued  to  explain.  "I  can 
see  your  short  sleeves  as  you  put  your  hands  over  the 
balusters — and  sometimes  you  push  up  your  front 
hair  with  the  back  of  your  hand — so." 

"Oh,  this  ?"  The  girl  laughed,  dramatizing  his  sug 
gestion,  and  smoothing  her  pompadour  into  obedience. 
"All  girls  do  that." 

"But  not  just  the  same  as  you  do  it,"  Clay  pro 
tested,  tenderly.  "Yes,  I  can  see  every  little  motion 
you  make." 

"Whenever  you  care  to  think  about  me?" 
47 


THE  WITCHING   HOUR 

"Bless  you,  no — that's  the  trouble."  There  was  a 
haunted  flutter  in  his  expression. 

"What  trouble?" 

"The  pictures  of  you  don't  come  just  when  I  want 
them  to  come,  especially  in  the  dark." 

"Why,  how  funny!" 

"In  the  dark  sometimes  they  form  like  the  views 
from  a  magic  lantern.  They  glow  strong  and  vivid, 
and  then  fade  into  the  black,  and  then  when  I  lie 
down  at  night  that  effect  sometimes  repeats  and  re 
peats  until  I've  had  to  light  the  gas  in  order  to  go 
to  sleep." 

"Pictures  of  me?" 

"Pictures  of  my  work  or  anything  that's  been  in 
my  mind  a  good  deal  during  the  day,  and  sometimes 
pictures  of  things  that  I  can't  remember  having  seen 
before." 

"Why,  I  never  heard  of  anything  like  that." 

"Well,  it  happens  to  me  often."  The  boy  was  si 
lent  for  a  moment,  as  though  searching  his  memory 
for  an  example;  and  then,  as  his  eye  caught  the 
draped  hangings  of  the  room,  he  said,  "Now,  I  de 
signed  this  room  for  your  uncle  Jack,  but  before  I'd 
put  a  brush  in  my  color-box  I  saw  this  very  Genoese 
velvet."  He  waved  his  hand,  indicating  the  walls. 
"And  I  saw  the  picture-frames  in  their  places — that 
Corot  right  there.  I've  got  kind  of  a  superstition 
about  that  picture."  Again  there  crept  into  his  eyes 
that  almost  haunted  look  that  had  arrested  Viola's 
attention  earlier  in  their  talk. 

"A  superstition!"  exclaimed  the  girl,  looking  from 
his  face  to  the  picture  indicated. 

48 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"Yes.  I  said  to  Jack,  'Have  anything  else  you 
want  on  the  other  walls,  but  right  there  I  wish  you'd 
put  a  Corot  that  I've  seen  at  a  dealer's  in  New  York* 
— and  he  did  it." 

"Uncle  Jack  generally  has  his  own  way  about  pict 
ures." 

"I  only  mean,"  said  Clay,  hastily  disclaiming  any 
pretence  of  mastery — "I  only  mean  that  your  uncle 
Jack  approved  of  my  taste  in  the  matter.  But  my 
idea  of  this  house  really  started  with  and  grew 
around  that  canvas  of  Corot's." 

"Then  it  isn't  always  me  that  you  see?" 

"Always  you  when  I  think  about  a  real  house,  you 
bet  —  a  house  for  me.  And  you'll  be  there,  won't 
you?" 

"Will  I?"  Viola  tempted  him  with  the  feminine 
instinct  which — however  frequently  its  possessor  may 
be  half  wooer — always  is  on  guard  against  the  re 
corded  fact. 

"Yes,"  Clay  pleaded,  "say  T  will.'" 

"I  will."  And  once  more  the  happy  suitor  folded 
her  in  his  arms. 

Perhaps  for  the  progress  of  their  understanding  it 
was  as  well  that  both  the  mothers,  having  finished 
their  examination  of  the  dwelling,  should  have  re- 
entered  the  room  at  that  moment. 

Helen  regarded  the  young  couple  with  scarcely  a 
flutter  of  astonishment;  but  Mrs.  Campbell,  doubly 
on  the  defensive  both  as  the  mother  of  the  weaker 
vessel  and  as  the  quasi-hostess,  exclaimed,  in  com 
mingling  astonishment,  warning,  and  rebuke: 

"Why,  Viola!" 

49 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"I've  asked  her,"  Clay  said,  addressing  his  mother 
and  still  retaining  hold  of  Viola's  hand. 

Mrs.  Campbell  turned  accusingly  to  her  guest. 
"Helen,  you  knew?" 

"Yes." 

Mrs.  Campbell  looked  back  to  the  young  couple  for 
further  explanation,  and  in  response  to  her  gaze  Clay 
said: 

"And  I've  asked  Jack,  too." 

"What—?" 

"We're  engaged  if  you  say  it's  all  right." 

"And  you,  Viola?" 

"Yes,"  the  girl  nodded. 

"Well,  if  Jack's  been  consulted,  and  you  all  know 
of  it,"  said  Alice,  making  a  blanket  distribution  of 
the  blame,  "I  should  be  a  very  hopeless  minority." 

"Why  any  minority?"  Clay  asked. 

"Only  the  necessary  considerations" — then  turn 
ing  to  the  boy's  mother — ' '  Clay's  prospects,  his  youth." 

"Why,  he  designs  most  of  the  work  for  his  firm 
now,"  Viola  urged,  in  a  wish  to  eliminate  what  she 
apprehended  as  the  principal  objection  attaching  to 
his  youth. 

"That  is,  dwellings,"  Clay  modestly  amended. 

"I  should  advise  waiting  myself  until  Clay  is  in  the 
firm,"  Helen  said,  consolingly  addressing  her  speech 
more  to  the  boy  than  to  the  others;  "and  I  did  advise 
delay  in  speaking  to  Viola." 

"I'd  'a'  waited,  mother,  only  Frank  Hardmuth  pro 
posed  to  Viola  to-night." 

"To-night!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Campbell,  for  whom 
surprises  were  coming  rapidly. 

50 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"At  the  opera,"  Viola  answered. 

"At  the  opera?"  her  mother  repeated,  and  then  in 
panic  helplessness  to  Helen  she  complained,  "One 
isn't  safe  anywhere." 

Clay,  pursuing  this  seeming  advantage,  asked: 

"And  you  wouldn't  want  him.  So  you  do  con 
sent,  don't  you?" 

"I  think  your  mother  and  I  should  talk  it  over." 

"Well,  it's  a  thing  a  fellow  doesn't  usually  ask  his 
mother  to  arrange,  but — " 

"You  mean  privately?"  Viola  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  her  mother. 

The  young  couple  hesitated,  doubting  the  policy  of 
being  unrepresented  in  the  conference;  but  as  the 
mothers  seemed  agreed  upon  this  condition,  and  as 
the  habit  of  filial  obedience  was  still  strong,  Clay 
said  to  his  sweetheart: 

"We  can  go  to  the  billiard-room, I  suppose?" 

"Come  on,"  Viola  assented,  moving  to  the  door. 

"You  know,  mother,  how  I  feel  about  it,"  Clay 

said. 

Helen  nodded  in  reassuring  sympathy.  The  boy 
and  girl  left  their  mothers  together. 

"I  supposed  you  had  guessed  it,"  Helen  said  to 
Alice,  who  was  still  maintaining  her  injured  pose. 
The  latter  made  one  or  two  ineffectual  gasps  at  re 
sponse,  and,  finding  that  her  delay  was  adding  to  the 
uncertainty  of  the  things  she  had  in  mind  to  say, 
she  made  a  virtue  of  surrender  to  complete  frank 
ness. 

"I  had,  but  when  the  moment  arrives,  after  all,  it's 
such  a  surprise  that  a  mother  can't  act  naturally." 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"Clay  is  really  very  trustworthy  for  his  age,"  said 
Helen. 

"There's  only  one  thing  to  discuss.  I  haven't  men 
tioned  it  because — well,  because  I've  seen  so  little 
of  you  since  it  began,  my  dear  Helen,  and  because 
the  fault  is  in  my  own  family." 

"Fault?" 

"Yes,  Jack's  fault."  Mrs.  Campbell  debated  a 
moment  the  propriety  of  proceeding,  and  then,  with 
an  influx  of  resolution,  she  looked  straight  at  Helen 
and  announced,  "Clay  is  playing." 

"Clay?" 

"Here — with  Jack's  friends." 

"Clay,"  Helen  repeated,  unwilling  to  realize  that 
the  blight  which  had  fallen  upon  her  own  romance  was 
possibly  settling  upon  the  life  of  her  boy,  "gambling  ?" 

"I  don't  quite  get  used  to  the  word" — Mrs.  Camp 
bell  winced — "though  we've  had  a  lifetime  of  it — 
gambling." 

"I  shouldn't  have  thought  Jack  would  do  that  with 
my  boy." 

"Jack  hasn't  our  feminine  point  of  view — and  be 
sides,  Jack  is  calloused  to  it." 

"You  should  have  talked  to  Jack  yourself." 

"Talked  to  him?  I  did  much  more — that  is,  as 
I  much  more  as  a  sister  depending  on  a  brother  for 
support  could  do."  Mrs.  Campbell  paused  as  she 
passed  in  reminiscence  various  interviews  with  her 
brother;  then  resolutely  going  back  to  the  beginning 
of  the  trouble,  she  continued,  "  You  know,  Jack  really 
built  this  place  for  me  and  Viola." 

"  I'd  thought  so— yes." 

52 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"Viola  is  the  very  core  of  Jack's  heart.  Well,  we 
both  left  the  house  and  went  into  our  little  apartment, 
and  are  there  now.  A  woman  can't  do  much  more 
than  that  and  still  take  her  living  from  a  man,  can 
she?" 

"No." 

"And  it  hurt  him — hurt  him  past  any  idea." 

"You  did  that  because  my  Clay  was  —  playing 
here?" 

' '  Not  entirely  Clay — everybody. ' '  And  then  in  jus 
tification  of  her  treatment  of  the  brother,  between 
whom  and  herself  there  was  genuine  affection,  Mrs. 
Campbell  explained: 

"There  isn't  a  better-hearted  man  nor  an  abler  one 
in  the  State  than  Jack  Brookfield,  but  I  had  my 
daughter  to  consider.  There  were  two  nights  under 
our  last  city  government  when  nothing  but  the  in 
fluence  of  this  Frank  Hardmuth  " — at  the  mention 
of  the  name  she  dropped  her  voice  and  glanced  cau 
tiously  toward  the  dining-room,  whence  Hardmuth's 
harsh  laughter  could  be  heard  issuing — "nothing  but 
his  influence  kept  the  police  from  coming  into  this 
house  and  arresting  everybody — think  of  it!" 

"Dreadful!" 

"Now,  that's  something,  Helen,  that  I  wouldn't 
tell  a  soul  but  you — Viola  doesn't  know  it;  but  Jack's 
card-playing  came  between  you  and  him  years  ago, 
and  so  you  may  know  it  —  you  may  even  have  some 
influence  with  Jack." 

"  I  ? "  Helen  sighed  and  smiled  pathetically.  ' '  Oh 
no." 

"Yes,"  Alice  answered,  firmly,  "this  supper  to-night 
53 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

was  Jack's  idea  for  you  —  the  box  at  the  opera  for 
you." 

"Why,  he  didn't  even  sit  with  us." 

"Also  for  you.  Jack  Brookfield  is  a  more  notable 
character  in  Louisville  to-day  than  he  was  twenty- 
two  years  ago.  His  company  would  have  made  you 
the  subject  of  unpleasant  comment.  That's  why  he 
left  us  alone  in  the  box." 

"Isn't  it  a  pity — a  terrible  pity,"  Helen  mused, 
slowly. 

"A  terrible  pity,"  Mrs.  Campbell  echoed. 

Further  confidences  between  them  were  prevented 
by  the  entrance  of  the  men  from  the  dining-room. 

"I  tell  the  gentlemen  we've  left  the  ladies  to  them 
selves  long  enough,  Mrs.  Campbell,"  Hardmuth  said, 
in  a  prosecutor's  rasping  voice  slightly  stimulated. 

"Quite  long  enough,  Mr.  Hardmuth." 

"Where's  the  young  lady — Jack's  niece?"  inquired 
Denning,  frankly,  looking  about  for  the  more  at 
tractive  metal. 

"In  the  billiard-room  I  believe,"  Helen  answered. 

"Oh,"  said  Denning,  in  undisguised  disappointment, 
"Jack's  been  telling  us  what  a  great  girl  she  is." 

"Some  of  us  knew  that  without  being  told,"  Hard 
muth  boasted,  from  a  group  near  the  fireplace. 

"And  she's  wonderfully  like  you,"  Denning  con 
tinued,  laboriously,  resolved  to  bring  up  his  average 
by  a  compliment  well  turned — "wonderfully  like  you. " 

"You  compliment  me,"  Helen  said,  smiling. 

"Are  you  under  the  impression  you're  speaking  to 
Viola's  mother?"  said  Jack,  taking  Denning  by  the 
arm. 

54 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"Ain't  I?" 

"This  lady  is  Mrs.  Whipple."  And  Jack,  leaving 
the  young  millionaire  in  his  embarrassment,  turned 
to  Hardmuth  and  Ellinger. 

"Oh,  Clay's  mother?"  Denning  inquired,  cau 
tiously.  Helen  nodded.  "Well,  your  boy,"  he  per 
sisted,  determined  upon  some  appropriate  recogni 
tion  of  the  relationship — "your  boy,  Mrs.  Whipple, 
plays  in  the  hardest  luck  of  all  the  people  I  ever  sat 
next  to." 

Jack  checked  any  further  disclosure  by  quickly  re 
turning  to  Denning. 

"You  depreciate  yourself,  Tom;  there's  no  hard 
kick  in  merely  sitting  next  to  you." 

Helen  heard  Jack  growling  in  an  undertone  of  re 
buke  to  Denning. 

"I  meant  unlucky  at  billiards,"  Denning  defended 
himself,  in  hopeless  audibility.  "They're  all  right, 
ain't  they?" 

As  he  left  Jack  and  moved  toward  the  ladies  in  ex 
onerated  self-satisfaction,  he  said  to  Mrs.  Campbell : 

"I  can  see  now  that  your  daughter  resembles 
you." 

"I  think  Clay  and  I  should  be  going,"  Helen  sug 
gested  to  Mrs.  Campbell. 

The  surroundings,  so  agreeable  a  few  moments 
before,  had  grown  suddenly  distasteful.  Denning's 
dulness  and  Hardmuth's  aggressive  coarseness  were 
doubly  offensive  when  she  regarded  them  as  associ 
ate  factors  in  her  boy's  degradation.  She  caught  a 
reflection  of  her  own  thought  in  Mrs.  Campbell's 
troubled  countenance,  and  a  quick  pity  for  the  woman 

55 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR 

so  unfortunately  situated  tempered  the  severity  of 
her  tone  and  attitude. 

Jack  had  drawn  his  watch  and  was  expostulating: 
"It's  only  a  little  after  twelve,  and  no  one  ever  goes 
to  sleep  in  this  house  before  two." 

Helen  caught  his  glance,  and  again  in  its  telegraphy 
she  read  his  understanding  of  the  contretemps  and 
his  assurance  that  the  real  Brookfield  was  far  above 
the  mental  squalor  of  the  association.  Mrs.  Camp 
bell  took  Helen's  hand  in  silent  furtherance  of  Jack's 
invitation. 

"Shall  we  join  them?"  Jack  said  to  Helen,  referring 
to  the  couple  in  the  billiard-room. 

"I'd  like  it." 

The  party  moved  to  the  door  with  the  exception  of 
Hardmuth,  who  bit  the  end  of  a  fresh  cigar  and 
said: 

"Jack! — just  a  minute." 

Brookfield  excused  himself ;  Ellinger  took  his  place 
at  Helen's  side,  and  the  party  passed  into  the  hall 
way,  from  which  Denning's  voice  drawled  in  diminu 
endo: 

"No,  Kansas  City  is  my  home,  but  I  don't  live 
there." 


V 

OROOKFIELD  was  not  altogether  unprepared 
D  for  the  interview  Hardmuth  demanded  of  him, 
though  uncertain  as  to  the  extent  of  its  disclosure. 
Hardmuth's  attentions  to  Viola,  both  in  the  box  at  the 
theatre  when  Jack  had  watched  them  through  the 
opera-glasses,  and  again  at  the  supper-table,  had  fore 
warned  Viola's  uncle.  Hardmuth  flattered  himself 
that  he  too  had  a  fair  understanding  of  Brookfield's 
attitude;  this  he  attributed  to  what  he  was  pleased 
to  call  his  knowledge  of  human  nature.  Hardmuth's 
profession,  aside  from  a  natural  shrewdness,  had  made 
him  quick  to  measure  any  degree  of  friendliness  or 
hostility  on  the  part  of  another  man.  In  addition 
to  this  there  was  between  himself  and  Brookfield  an 
intimacy  of  many  years.  To  go  no  deeper  into  the 
intuitive  sense  of  either  man,  the  long  study  each 
had  made  of  the  other  across  the  card -table  had 
equipped  them  individually  with  a  special  prevision. 

Left  together,  Hardmuth  began  what  promised  to 
be  a  serious  colloquy  by  the  nonchalant  confession: 

"Took  advantage  of  your  hospitality,  old  man,  to 
night." 

"Advantage?"  queried  Brookfield. 

"Yes;   I've  been  talking  to  your  niece." 

"Oh!" 

57 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"Proposed  to  her." 

"Yes?" 

"Yes,"  repeated  Hardmuth. 

Brookfield's  face  took  on  that  inscrutable  look  with 
which  he  was  accustomed  to  regard  his  hand  just 
after  the  deal  or  draw.  The  slight  pause  was  broken 
by  the  entrance  of  the  young  darky. 

"A  gentleman  called  you  on  the  telephone,  suh." 

' '  Who  ?"     Brookfield  consulted  his  watch. 

"Judge  De  Brennus — name  sounds  like,"  Jo  an 
swered;  "holdin'  the  wire,  suh." 

"I  don't  know  any  Judge  De  Brennus." 

"Says  you  don't  know  him,  suh;  but  he's  got  to 
leave  town  in  the  mornin',  and  he'd  be  very  much 
obliged  if  you'd  see  him  to-night." 

"Did  you  tell  him  we  were  dark  to-night?" 

"He  don't  want  no  game.  It's  about  a  picture — a 
picture  you've  got." 

"A  picture?" 

"He  wants  to  look  at  it." 

Brookfield  turned  interrogatively  to  Hardmuth,  and 
that  gentleman,  anxious  to  defer  any  interruption  of 
the  business  in  hand,  said: 

"It's  a  blind." 

By  this  phrase  from  the  criminal  vocabulary  Hard 
muth  conveyed  that  the  caller,  under  the  pretence  of 
examining  a  picture,  was  really  seeking  incriminating 
evidence  against  the  proprietor  of  the  establishment. 
Brookfield  smiled  as  he  thought  of  the  character  of 
the  party  at  present  within  his  walls  and  the  conse 
quent  disappointment  of  any  investigator. 

"Well,  this  is  a  good  night  to  work  a  blind 
58 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

on  me;  tell  the  gentleman  I'll  be  up  for  half  an 
hour." 

Jo  disappeared. 

"So  you  proposed  to  Viola?"  said  Brookfield,  tak 
ing  up  the  conference  at  the  point  of  interruption. 

"Yes;  how  do  you  feel  about  that?" 

Brookfield  hesitated.  To  have  answered  truthfully 
would  have  introduced  an  uncalled-for  bitterness. 

"Well,  you  know  the  story  of  the  barkeeper  asking 
the  owner,  'Is  Grady  good  for  a  drink?'  'Has  he  had 
it?'  'He  has.'  'He  is.'" 

"Just  that  way,  eh?"  Hardmuth  plainly  was  not 
complimented. 

Jack  smiled  and  nodded. 

"Well,"  said  Hardmuth,  applying  the  illustration, 
"she  hasn't  answered  me." 

Brookfield  grunted  tentatively.  Hardmuth  con 
tinued  : 

"And  under  those  conditions,  how's  Grady 's  credit 
with  you?" 

"Well,  Frank,  on  any  ordinary  proposition  you're 
aces  with  me — you  know  that." 

"But  for  the  girl?" 

"It's  different." 

"Why?" 

"She's  only  nineteen,  you  know." 

"My  sister  married  at  eighteen." 

"I  mean  you're  thirty-five."  Brookfield  made  a 
show  of  deliberation. 

"That's  not  an  unusual  difference." 

"Not  an  impossible  difference,  but  I  think  unusual 
• — and  rather  unadvisable." 
s  59 


THE  WITCHING   HOUR 

"That's  what  you  think  ?"  The  resistance  in  Hard- 
muth's  tone  was  provokingly  near  aggression. 

"Yes — that's  what  I  think,"  Brookfield  said,  with 
equal  positiveness. 

"But  suppose  the  lady  is  willing  to  give  that  han 
dicap — what  then?" 

Brookfield  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Let's  cross 
that  bridge  when  we  come  to  it." 

"You  mean  you'd  still  drag  a  little?" 

"Do  you  think  Viola  likes  you  well  enough  to  say 
yes?"  Jack  asked,  still  unwilling  to  speak  finally. 

"Let's  cross  that  bridge  when  we  come  to  it." 

"We  have  come  to  that  one,  Frank;  there's  another 
man  in  the  running,  and  I  think  she. likes  him." 

"You  mean  young  Whipple  ?  Well,  he  took  second 
money  in  the  box-party  to-night,  and  at  the  supper- 
table,  too.  I'll  agree  to  take  care  of  him  if  you're 
with  me." 

"I  think  he's  your  biggest  opposition,"  Brookfield 
answered,  divertingly. 

"But  you,"  persisted  Hardmuth — "can  I  count  on 
you  in  the  show-down?" 

Brookfield  paused,  searching  his  mind  for  some 
phrase  that  would  still  evade  the  issue. 

"If  Viola  doesn't  care  enough  for  you,  Frank,  to 
accept  you  in  spite  of  anything  or  everything,  I 
shouldn't  try  to  influence  her  in  your  favor." 

Hardmuth's  brow  knitted,  intent  upon  his  purpose. 
His  question,  however,  was  interrupted  by  the  return 
of  Ellinger,  who  sauntered  in  with  an  exaggerated 
expression  of  weariness,  complaining: 

"I  think  a  bum  game  of  billiards  is  about  as  thin 
60 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

an  entertainment  for  the  outsiders  as  'Who's  got  the 
button?'" 

Brookfield  smiled  in  welcome.  He  hoped  that  the 
interview  with  Hardmuth  might  be  checked  and 
further  conference  postponed  until  he  had  an  oppor 
tunity  of  talking  the  matter  over  with  his  niece.  But 
Hardmuth's  mood  was  not  so  complacent.  He  took 
the  old  sport  by  the  elbow  with  an  air  of  authority 
and  led  him  toward  the  dining-room. 

"I've  got  a  little  business,  Lew,  with  Jack  for  a 
minute." 

The  direction  in  which  the  exile  was  propelled  had 
as  much  to  do  with  Ellinger's  tractability  as  had  its 
declared  purpose  or  authority.  He  answered,  amiably : 

"Well,  I  can  sit  in  by  the  bottle,  can't  I  ?" 

Assuming  Brookfield 's  consent  to  that  agreeable  pas 
time,  Lew  left  them,  still  railing  at  the  mild  form  of 
the  entertainment  he  had  just  abandoned. 

"Such  awful  stage  waits  while  they  chalk  their 
cues!" 

Hardmuth  turned  to  Brookfield,  persisting:  "But 
you  wouldn't  try  to  influence  her  against  me?" 

Once  more  Jack  spoke  slowly,  looking  for  the 
easiest  way  to  say  a  disagreeable  thing  if  it  might  not 
be  completely  avoided. 

"She's  about  the  closest  thing  to  me  there  is — 
that  niece  of  mine." 

"Well?" 

"I'd  protect  her  happiness  to  the  limit  of  my 
ability." 

"But  if  she  likes  me,  or  should  come  to  like  me 
enough,  her  happiness  would  be  with  me,  wouldn't  it  ?" 

61 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"She  might  think  so." 

"Well?" 

"But  she'd  be  mistaken;  it  would  be  a  mistake, 
old  chap." 

"I  know  twenty  men  twelve  to  fifteen  years  older 
than  their  wives  all  happy — wives  happy,  too." 

"It  isn't  just  that." 

"What  is  it?" 

"She's  a  fine  girl — that  niece  of  mine — not  a  blem 
ish.  I  want  to  see  her  get  the  best — the  very  best — 
in  family,  position,  character." 

"Anything  against  the  Hardmuths?"  the  attorney 
demanded,  taking  the  first  feature  in  Brookfield's 
enumeration.  Brookfield  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  assistant  district  attorney  here,"  Hardmuth 
continued,  addressing  his  mind  to  the  question  of 
position,  "and  next  trip  I'll  be  the  district  attorney." 

"I  said  character." 

"Character?"  echoed  Hardmuth,  not  quite  so 
stoutly  as  he  had  made  his  other  assertions. 

"Yes,"  Jack  answered. 

"You  mean  there's  anything  against  my  reputa 
tion?" 

"No;  I  mean  character  pure  and  simple — I  mean 
the  moral  side  of  you." 

"Well,  by  God!"  exclaimed  Hardmuth,  in  a  whis 
per  of  feigned  astonishment. 

"You  see,  I'm  keeping  the  girl  in  mind  all  the  time." 

"My  morals!" 

"Let's  say  your  moral  fibre." 

"Well,  for  richness  this  beats  anything  I've  struck. 
Jack  Brookfield  talking  to  me  about  my  moral  fibre!" 

62 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

This  was  the  method  of  the  attorney  who  endeav 
ors  to  weaken  testimony  by  attack.  A  shrewder  man 
might  have  seen  the  menace  in  the  eye  of  Brookfield 
despite  the  quiet  tone  with  which  he  responded: 

"You  asked  for  it." 

"Yes  I  did,  and  now  I'm  going  to  ask  for  the  show 
down.  What  do  you  mean  by  it?" 

The  desire  as  well  as  the  latitude  for  finesse  had 
passed  for  Brookfield. 

"I  mean,  as  long  as  you've  called  attention  to  the 
richness  of  Jack  Brookfield  talking  to  you  on  the 
subject,  that  Jack  Brookfield  is  a  professional  gam 
bler — people  get  from  Jack  Brookfield  just  what  he 
promises — a  square  deal.  Do  you  admit  that?" 

"I  admit  that.     Go  on." 

"You're  the  assistant  prosecuting  attorney  of  the 
city  of  Louisville.  The  people  don't  get  from  you 
just  what  you  promised,  not  by  a  jugful." 

"I'm  the  assistant  prosecuting  attorney,  remember 
— I  promised  to  assist  in  prosecution,  not  to  institute 
it." 

"I  expect  technical  defence,  old  man,  but  this  was 
to  be  a  show-down." 

"Let's  have  it;  I  ask  for  particulars." 

"Here's  one.  You  play  here  in  my  house,  and  you 
know  it's  against  the  law  that  you've  sworn  to  sup 
port." 

"I'll  support  the  law  whenever  it's  invoked.  In 
dict  me  and  I'll  plead  guilty." 

"This  evasion  is  what  I  mean  by  lack  of  moral 
fibre." 

Hardmuth  was  a  sufficiently  keen  observer  to  see 

63 


the  justice  of  Brookfield's  remark.  That  it  was 
merited  only  made  it  rankle  the  more.  He  was  vain 
enough  also  to  imagine  himself  Brookfield's  superior 
in  intellect,  and  he  found  it  impossible  to  refrain  from 
allusion  to  that  belief. 

"Perhaps  we're  a  little  shy  somewhere  on  mental 
fibre,"  he  insinuated. 

"You  make  me  say  it,  do  you,  Frank?  Your  duty 
is  at  least  to  keep  secret  the  information  of  your  office ; 
contrary  to  that  duty,  you've  betrayed  the  secrets 
of  your  office  to  warn  me  and  other  men  of  this  city 
when  their  game  was  in  danger  from  the  police." 

"You  throw  that  up  to  me?" 

"Throw  nothing — you  asked  for  it." 

"I  stand  by  my  friends." 

There  was  criticism  as  well  as  defiance  in  Hard- 
muth's  answer. 

"Exactly,"  Brookfield  responded,  "and  you've 
taken  an  oath  to  stand  by  the  people." 

"Do  you  know  any  sure  politician  that  doesn't 
stand  by  his  friends?" 

"Not  one." 

"Well,  there."  And  again  Hardmuth  felt  himself 
vindicated. 

"But  I  don't  know  any  sure  politician  that  I'd  tell 
my  niece  to  marry." 

"That's  a  little  too  fine-haired  for  me,"  the  attorney 
sneered. 

"I  think  it  is." 

Brookfield's  expression  of  his  opinion  had  given  it 
value  to  his  own  ear,  and  he  felt  a  composure  in  it 
that  completely  relieved  him  of  his  anger  of  the  mo- 

64 


THE   WITCHING    HOUR 

ment  before.  This  repose  was,  if  possible,  more  gall 
ing  to  Hardmuth  than  the  criticism  had  been.  Argu 
ment  exhausted,  he  resorted  to  the  final  test  accord 
ing  to  his  experience. 

"I'll  bet  you  a  thousand  dollars  I'm  the  next  prose 
cuting  attorney  for  this  city." 

"I'll  take  half  of  that  if  you  can  place  it,"  Brook- 
field  answered,  readily  adopting  Hardmuth 's  point  of 
view.  "I'll  bet  even  money  you're  anything  in  poli 
tics  that  you  go  after  for  the  next  ten  years;  but 
I'll  give  odds  that  the  time  will  come — when  you're 
'way  up  there,  full  of  honor  and  reputation  and 
pride,  and — somebody  will  drop  to  you,  Frank;  then 
— flosh!" — Brookfield  turned  his  hand,  graphically 
dramatizing  the  flop  of  a  landed  fish  on  a  dock — 
"you  for  the  down-and-outs." 

"Rot!" 

"It's  the  same  in  every  game  in  the  world — the 
crook  either  gets  too  gay  or  gets  too  slow,  or  both, 
and  the  'come  on'  sees  him  make  the  pass.  I've 
been  pall-bearer  for  three  of  the  slickest  men  that 
ever  shuffled  a  deck  in  Kentucky — just  a  little  too 
slick,  that's  all — and  they've  always  got  it  when  it 
was  hardest  for  the  family." 

"So  that  will  be  my  finish,  will  it?" 

"Sure!" 

Hardmuth  puffed  his  cigar  a  moment,  mentally 
contemplating  the  prospect,  and  then  as  his  mind 
came  back  to  the  proposition  in  hand,  and  to  the  con 
siderations  against  him,  he  asked,  angrily: 

"You  like  the  moral  fibre  of  this  young  Whipple 
kid?" 

65 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR 

"I  don't  know." 

"Weak  as  dish-water." 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"I'll  do  him  at  any  game  you  name." 

"He's  only  a  boy — you  should." 

"I'll  do  him  at  this  game,"  Hardmuth  persisted. 

"What  game?" 

"The  girl.  I  thought  I  could  count  on  you  because 
— well,  for  the  very  tips  that  you  hold  against  me; 
but  you're  only  her  uncle,  old  man,  after  all." 

"That's  all,"  Brookfield  said,  smiling;  but  there 
was  more  threat  than  admission  in  tone  and  eye. 

"And  if  she  says  yes — " 

"Frank!"  Jack's  temper  was  plainly  rising;  he 
paused  in  an  evident  effort  to  control  it.  When  he 
spoke  again  Hardmuth  noticed  that  there  was  more 
menace  in  his  manner.  "Some  day  the  truth  will 
come  out  as  to  who  murdered  a  governor-elect  of 
this  State." 

"Is  there  any  doubt  about  that  ?"  Hardmuth  non 
chalantly  shook  the  ashes  from  his  cigar. 

"Isn't  there?"  came  in  that  deadly  monotone  of 
Brookfield's. 

"The  man  that  fired  the  shot  is  in  jail."  Hard- 
muth's  tone  carried  more  fervor  than  a  simple  reply 
would  seem  to  have  demanded. 

Brookfield's  voice  kept  on  its  even,  threatening 
level,  as  though  the  pause  had  been  for  effect  rather 
than  for  Hardmuth's  answer. 

"I  don't  want  my  niece  mixed  up  in  it." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

Hardmuth  was  now  facing  the  gambler,  livid  and 
66 


THE   WITCHING  HOUR 

trembling,  his  eyes  narrowed  to  little  gleaming  slits. 
There  was  no  weakness  or  wavering  in  the  man  who 
faced  him.  Brookfield  had  said  the  thing  that  he  had 
promised  himself  a  hundred  times  he  would  never 
say,  the  thing  that,  even  now  reluctantly  said  to  pro 
tect  his  niece,  it  would  never,  he  felt,  be  necessary  to 
repeat.  The  situation  was — in  Hardmuth's  parlance 
— a  veritable  show-down.  One  question  more,  one 
more  answer,  and  there  would  be  blows  or  a  cring 
ing  criminal  and  his  master. 

Helen  entered  the  room.  The  visual  duel  between 
the  men  was  broken.  Hardmuth  turned  to  Helen 
with  an  inquiry  concerning  the  young  people,  and 
when  informed  that  they  were  still  at  the  billiard- 
table,  mumbled  something  about  "looking  them 
over,"  and  left  the  room. 

"Won't  you  come,  too?"  Helen  asked  Jack,  with  a 
seriousness  that  showed  her  coming  into  the  room, 
had  not  been  casual. 

"I'd  rather  stay  here  with  you." 

"That  gentleman  that  called  after  supper — " 

"Mr.  Denning?"  Jack  prompted. 

"Yes.  He  seems  to  take  pleasure  in  annoying 
Clay." 

"Yes;  I  know  that  side  of  Denning." 

Brookfield  turned  toward  the  dining-room  and 
called  Ellinger.  When  he  entered,  Jack  asked  him  to 
go  into  the  billiard-room  and  look  after  Denning. 

"What's  he  doing?"  Lew  inquired  of  Helen. 

"Commenting  humorously,  and  hiding  the  chalk, 
and  so  on,"  she  replied. 

"Lit  up  a  little,  I  suppose,"  Lew  suggested  to  Jack. 
67 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

Jack  nodded,  and,  motioning  Ellinger  on  his  way, 
said,  "Just  ride  herd  on  him." 

Helen  wavered  in  her  impulse  to  follow  Ellinger  to 
the  billiard-room,  and  finally  yielded  to  Jack  as  he 
indicated  a  chair. 

"He  doesn't  seem  much  of  a  gentleman — this  Mr. 
Denning,"  she  said. 

"He  wasn't  expected  to-night." 

"Is  he  one  of  your — clients?"  There  was  more 
sarcasm  than  consideration  in  Helen's  choice  of  the 
word.  Jack  acknowledged  it  with  a  smile. 

"One  of  my  clients." 

"Clay  meets  him  here?" 

"Yes — has  met  him  here." 

"I  didn't  think  you'd  do  that,  Jack,  with  my  boy." 

"Do  what?" 

"Gamble." 

"It's  no  gamble  with  your  boy,  Helen,"  Jack  said, 
lightly,  "it's  a  sure  thing;  he  hasn't  won  a  dollar." 

"I'm  glad  you're  able  to  smile  over  it." 

"Perhaps  it  would  seem  more  humorous  to  you  if 
he'd  won?" 

"If  he  plays  I'd  rather  see  him  win,  of  course." 

"That  put  me  in  the  business  —  winning,"  Jack 
said,  seriously.  "The  thing  that  makes  every  gam 
bler  stick  to  it  is  winning  occasionally.  I've  never 
let  your  boy  get  up  from  the  table  a  dollar  to  the 
good,  and  because  he  was  your  boy." 

"Why  let  him  play  at  all?" 

"He'll  play  somewhere  until  he  gets  sick  of  it — or 
marries,"  Jack  answered,  wearily. 

"Will  marriage  cure  it?" 
68 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"It  would  have  cured  me,  but  you  didn't  see  it 
that  way." 

"You  made  your  choice." 

"I  asked  you  to  trust  me;  you  wanted  some  iron 
clad  pledge  —  well,  my  dear  Helen,  that  wasn't  the 
best  way  to  handle  a  fellow  of  spirit." 

"So  you  chose  the  better  way?" 

"No  choice — I  stood  pat,  that's  all." 

"And  wasted  your  life." 

"That  depends  on  how  you  look  at  it.  You  mar 
ried  a  doctor  who  wore  himself  out  in  the  Philadel 
phia  hospitals.  I've  had  three  meals  a  day,  and  this 
place  and  a  pretty  fat  farm  and  a  stable  with  some 
good  blood  in  it." 

"And  every  one  of  them,  Jack,  is  a  monument  to 
the  worst  side  of  you,"  Helen  interrupted.  The 
criticism  was  robbed  of  its  implied  severity  by  her 
manner,  as  she  walked  toward  him  more  in  pity  than 
in  rebuke.  Jack  took  both  her  hands  in  his  as  he 
answered : 

"Prejudice,  my  dear  Helen,  prejudice.  You  might 
say  that  if  I'd  earned  these  things  in  some  respectable 
combination  that  starved  out  all  its  little  competi 
tors."  Brookfield  held  the  prevalent  political  disap 
proval  of  monopolies.  "But  I've  simply  furnished 
a  fairly  expensive  entertainment  to  eminent  citizens 
looking  for  rest." 

Helen  shook  her  head  at  Jack's  indulgent  descrip 
tion  of  his  business. 

"I  know  all  the  arguments  of  your — profession — 
Jack,  and  I  don't  pretend  to  answer  them  any  more 
than  I  answer  the  arguments  of  reckless  women,  who 

69 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

claim  that  they  are  more  commendable  than  their 
sisters  who  make  loveless  marriages." 

"I'm  not  flattered  by  the  implied  comparison — 
still—" 

"I  only  feel  sure,"  Helen  went  on,  "that  anything 
which  the  majority  of  good  people  condemn  is  wrong." 
She  turned  from  him  with  an  air  of  finality. 

"I'm  sorry,"  Jack  said. 

"I'd  be  glad  if  you  meant  that — but  you're  not 
sorry." 

"I  am  sorry — I'm  sorry  not  to  have  public  respect, 
as  long  as  you  think  it's  valuable." 

"I  amuse  you,  don't  I?" 

Jack  followed  her  across  the  room  and  took  the 
chair  at  the  end  of  the  table  opposite  to  that  upon 
which  she  seated  herself.  He  passed  his  hand  wearily 
over  his  eyes. 

"Not  a  little  bit,"  he  said;  "but  you  make  me  as 
blue  as  the  devil,  if  that's  any  satisfaction." 

"I'd  be  glad  to  make  you  as  blue  as  the  devil, 
Jack,"  Helen  said,  resolutely,  "if  it  meant  discontent 
with  what  you  are  doing — if  it  could  make  you  do 
better." 

"I'm  a  pretty  old  leopard  to  get  nervous  about  my 
spots." 

"Why  are  you  blue?" 

"You." 

"In  what  way?" 

"I  had  hoped  that  twenty  years  of  charitable  deeds 
had  made  you  also  charitable  in  your  judgment." 

"I  hope  they  have." 

"Don't  seem  to  ease  up  on  my  specialty." 
70 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"You  called  your  conduct  wild  oats  twenty  years 
ago." 

"It  was;  but  I  found  such  an  excellent  market  for 
my  wild  oats  that  I  had  to  stay  in  that  branch  of  the 
grain  business.  Besides,  it  has  been  partly  your 
fault,  you  know." 

"Mine?" 

Jack  nodded.  "Your  throwing  me  over  for  my 
wild  oats  put  it  up  to  me  to  prove  that  they  were  a 
better  thing  than  you  thought." 

"Well,  having  demonstrated  that —  ?"  Helen  waited. 

Jack,  feeling  that  his  financial  prosperity  and  the* 
evidences  of  physical  comfort  surrounding  them  was 
a  sufficient  answer,  extended  his  hands  complacently, 
and  with  a  self-satisfied  air  added,  lazily: 

"Here  we  are." 

"Yes,"  assented  Helen,  her  tone  showing  that  she 
had  more  regard  for  the  sentimental  aspect  of  the 
case,  "here  we  are." 

"Back  in  the  old  town,"  Jack  added,  bringing  the 
consideration  to  a  neutral  ground.  Then,  as  he 
leaned  forward  on  the  table  in  the  playful  manner  of 
the  old  Jack,  the  manner  that  had  been  so  irresistibly 
potent  in  their  younger  days:  "Don't  you  think  it 
would  be  a  rather  pretty  finish,  Helen,  if,  despite  all 
my  leopard's  spots,  and  despite  that — that  Philadel 
phia  episode  of  yours — 

"You  call  twenty  years  of  marriage  episodic?" 
Helen  broke  in,  half  playfully. 

"I  call  any  departure  from  the  main  story  episodic." 

There  was  a  quiet  authority  in  Jack's  tone  that 
compelled  Helen  to  put  the  leading  question: 


THE  WITCHING   HOUR 

"And  the  main  story  is — ?" 

"You  and  I." 

"Oh — "  Helen  had  been  balancing  the  heavy 
paper-cutter  in  seesaw  fashion  on  the  edge  of  the 
table.  The  positiveness  of  Jack's  answer  had  occu 
pied  her  sole  attention  for  the  moment,  and  the  paper- 
cutter  fell  to  the  floor  with  a  noticeable  thud.  Jack 
picked  it  up.  On  one  side,  near  the  handle,  the  cut 
ter  was  faintly  engraved,  "Jack,  from  Helen."  It 
was  one  of  the  few  gifts  she  had  made  him  in  her 
girlhood  days.  Jack  recalled  the  afternoon  that  they 
had  leaned  above  the  stationer's  showcase  in  which 
it  had  been  displayed;  his  admiration  for  the  imple 
ment  ;  Helen's  amusement  at  some  playful  remark  of 
his  about  the  owner  of  such  a  paper-cutter  being  able 
not  only  to  gain  with  it,  but  also  to  enforce  a  liter 
ary  opinion;  he  remembered  the  somewhat  astonish 
ing  price  the  dealer  had  put  upon  it — a  price  geomet 
ric  in  its  relation  to  the  cost  of  smaller  paper-cutters 
—  and  his  delight  in  its  possession  on  the  anniver 
sary  Helen  had  chosen  to  send  it  to  him.  Of  all  the 
articles  in  this  curiously  fitted  library  of  his,  this  was 
his  favorite.  There  was  a  natural  streak  of  super 
stition  in  Brookfield,  a  superstition  which  his  busi 
ness  had  considerably  cultivated;  he  attributed  but 
few  of  the  things  that  happened  in  his  day  to  accident. 
That  Helen  should  drop  this  piece  of  ivory  which  for 
so  many  years  had  been  a  memento  of  her,  and  in  con 
sequence  should  bring  him  to  her  side,  Brookfield  re 
garded  as  significant.  Lifting  the  ivory  knife  from 
the  floor,  he  covered  both  her  hands,  still  resting  on 
the  edge  of  the  table,  with  his  disengaged  hand,  and 

72 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

holding  the  paper-cutter  as  he  would  have  held  a 
sword,  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  dreamy  persuasion  and  of 
unmistakable  resolution : 

"Wouldn't  it  be  a  pretty  finish,  Helen,  if  you  took 
my  hand  and  I  could  walk  right  up  to  the  camera 
and  say,  'I  told  you  so." 

Helen  made  no  answer  during  the  pause  that  fol 
lowed,  and  with  an  air  of  possession  Jack  added: 

"You  know  I  always  felt  that  you  were  coming 
back." 

"Oh,  did  you?" 

"Had  a  candle  burning  in  that  window  every 
night." 

"You're  sure  it  wasn't  a  red  light?" 

"Dear  Helen,  have  some  poetry  in  your  composi 
tion.  Literally  a  red  light,  of  course."  Jack  accept 
ed  the  allusion  to  his  business.  "But  the  real  flame 
was  here" — he  put  his  hand  on  his  breast — "a  flick 
ering  hope  that  somewhere — somehow — somewhen  I 
should  be  at  rest  with  the  proud  Helen  that  loved  and 
rode  away." 

Jack's  assumption  of  playfulness  could  not  disguise 
his  sincerity  of  feeling.  He  had  moved  behind  the 
table,  and  was  smiling  down  upon  the  beautiful  wom 
an  who  sat  at  the  other  end  of  it. 

Helen  was  not  smiling.  There  was  something  in 
the  steadiness  of  her  glance  that  Jack  felt  was  meant 
for  accusation.  She  answered  with  conviction  in  her 
even  voice: 

' '  I — believe — you . ' ' 

"Of  course  you  believe  me."  Brookfield  attempt 
ed  a  counterpointing  lightness. 

73 


THE   WITCHING  HOUR 

"You  had  a  way,  Jack,"  Helen  continued,  reminis- 
cently —  "a  way  when  you  were  a  boy  at  college  of 
making  me  write  to  you." 

"Had  I?" 

"You  know  you  had.  At  night — about  this  hour 
— I'd  find  it  impossible  to  sleep  until  I'd  got  up  and 
written  to  you — and  two  days  later  I'd  get  from  you 
a  letter  that  had  crossed  mine  on  the  road.  I  don't 
believe  the  word  'telepathy'  had  been  coined  then, 
but  I  guessed  something  of  the  force,  and  all  these 
years  I've  felt  it  nagging — nagging." 

"Nagging?" 

"Yes — I  could  keep  you  out  of  my  waking  hours, 
out  of  my  thought;  but  when  I  surrendered  myself 
to  sleep  the  call  would  come — and  I  think  it  was 
rather  cowardly  of  you,  really." 

Jack  was  too  well  read  in  the  current  and  semi- 
scientific  comment  of  the  day  to  pretend  any  doubt 
of  the  sinister  influence  that  Helen's  speech  implied. 
His  strain  of  superstition  also  made  him  readily 
tolerant  of  the  imputation,  but  the  knowledge  of 
his  own  intent  made  him  ascribe  her  view  entirely 
to  what  he  was  pleased  to  call  a  feminine  sentimen 
tality.  Helen's  earnestness,  therefore,  produced  in 
him  only  amusement.  His  reply  was  playful. 

"I  plead  guilty  to  having  thought  of  you,  Helen — 
lots — and  it  was  generally  when  I  was  alone — late — 
my — my  clients  gone — and  it  was  in  this  room, 

"  '  Whose  lights  are  fled, 
Whose  garlands  dead, 
And  all  save  him  departed.' " 

74 


THE   WITCHING  HOUR 

And  with  the  quotation  of  the  old  song  they  had 
frequently  sung  together,  Jack  put  his  hand  theatri 
cally  upon  his  breast. 

Helen,  overlooking  his  inhospitable  reception  of 
her  psychical  suggestion,  accepted  Jack's  mood  and 
met  his  airy  flight. 

"And  as  you  say — here  we  are." 

"Well,  what  of  my  offer?"  Jack  promptly  chal 
lenged.  "Shall  we  say  to  the  world — 'we  told  you 
so'?  What  of  my  picturesque  finish?" 

He  leaned  over  her  chair  and  held  the  hand  that 
lay  upon  the  table.  Helen  thrilled  to  the  double  ap 
peal  of  the  vibrant  voice  and  physical  nearness  of  her 
old  lover — it  required  all  her  resolution  to  answer,  in 
measured  tones: 

"You  know  my  ideas — you've  known  them  twenty- 
two  years." 

"No  modifications?"  Jack  pleaded. 

"None." 

Brookfield  sighed.  He  moved  from  behind  Helen's 
chair  to  a  point  within  her  vision,  and  pointing  to  the 
floor  above,  in  the  rooms  of  which  most  of  the  para 
phernalia  of  the  establishment  was  arranged,  he  said: 

"I'm  willing  to  sell  the  tables — and — well,  I  don't 
think  I  could  get  interested  in  this  bridge  game  that 
the  real  good  people  play — would  you  object  to  a 
gentleman's  game  of  draw  now  and  then?" 

"You  called  it  a  gentleman's  game  in  those  days." 

"No  leeway  at  all?" 

"No  compromise,  Jack — no." 

Brookfield  passed  his  hand  wearily  across  his  eyes 
as  he  had  done  earlier  in  the  interview.  His  keen 
6  75 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

sense  of  humor  saw  something  rather  droll  in  this 
attitude  of  himself  and  Helen — her  implied  condi 
tions,  his  apparent  consideration — and  with  a  quick 
deference  that  had  always  been  part  of  his  charm 
where  women  were  concerned  he  said: 

"  I  trust  you  won't  consider  my  seeming  hesitation 
uncomplimentary. 

"Not unprecedented,  at  least."  And  Helen  smiled 
in  recollection  of  a  smilar  conclusion  some  two-and- 
twenty  years  before. 

"You  see,  it  opens  up  a  new  line  of  thought,"  Jack 
said,  reflectively.  He  pressed  his  fingers  over  his 
eyes. 

"And  you  have  a  headache,  too,"  Helen  recollected, 
with  sudden  compunction.  "  It  isn't  kind,  I'm  sure." 
She  stood  up  and  took  Jack's  hand  in  hers. 

The  hall-boy,  Jo,  came  in  to  announce  that  the  gen 
tleman  who  had  telephoned  about  the  picture  was 
below.  Jack  asked  Helen  not  to  go  away,  as  the 
interview  would  be  short,  and  he  added : 

"I  think  we  can  settle  this  question  to-night,  you 
and  I." 

"  Please  don't  put  me  in  the  light  of  waiting  for  an 
answer,"  she  said,  with  gentle  raillery. 

"  Dear  Helen,  we're  both  past  that,  aren't  we  ?  If 
I  could  only  be  sure  to  prove  worthy  of  you!  I'm  the 
one  that's  waiting  for  an  answer  from  my  own  weak 
character  and  rotten  irresolution." 

It  was  all  the  confession  that  Helen  could  have 
wished.  Jack  lifted  the  hand  that  he  still  held  and 
kissed  it  gently.  He  kept  her  hand  in  his  until  they 
reached  the  doorway,  and  still,  as  she  was  going,  held 

76 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

it  so  fast  as  to  arrest  her  progress.  But  she  would 
not  turn  her  face  to  him,  and  after  a  moment's  firm 
pressure  Jack  released  his  hold,  and  she  quickly  dis 
appeared.  The  interview,  light  as  it  had  been  at 
times,  playful  as  Jack  had  tried  to  make  it,  had 
nevertheless  stirred  both  natures  as  deeply  as  two 
people  of  their  maturity  and  experience  could  be 
stirred.  They  had  reconnoitred  and  established  the 
most  momentous  question  that  could  come  into  the 
life  of  either. 

Brookfield  turned  solemnly  back  to  the  table,  to 
the  empty  chair,  to  the  paper-cutter  that  somehow 
seemed  to  have  taken  a  part  in  their  renewed  rela 
tionship.  He  smiled  as  he  thought  of  it,  handling  the 
ivory  knife  fondly — Helen's  long-ago  gift!  The  hour, 
the  very  atmosphere  of  the  room,  seemed  potentially 
vibrant ;  he  was  moved  to  an  unwonted  degree  as  he 
muttered  to  himself: 

"They  say  cards  make  a  fellow  superstitious — well, 
I  guess  they  do." 


VI 

A")  Jo  ushered  the  gentleman  into  the  room,  Brook- 
field  recognized  him  at  once  as  the  stranger 
whose  gaze  had  so  affected  him  in  the  theatre.  He 
saw  a  man  whose  age  was  in  the  neighborhood  of 
seventy,  slight  and  graceful  in  figure,  and  noticeably 
erect  for  a  man  so  old.  The  face  was  poetic,  yet  not 
lacking  in  strength;  the  expression  one  of  indulgent 
patience.  Jo  announced  the  visitor: 

"Judge  De  Brennus." 

Brookfield  repeated  the  name  with  a  declination  of 
welcome.  There  was  a  half  twinkle  of  amusement 
between  them  as  the  visitor,  after  a  glance  at  the 
negro  boy,  corrected  his  announcement — "Justice 
Prentice." 

"  Oh,  Justice  Prentice!"  said  Jack,  in  immediate  rec 
ognition  of  the  name;  "  good  evening."  Jo  left  them. 

"You  are  Mr.  Brookfield?" 

"Yes,"  Jack  assured  his  visitor. 

"  I  shouldn't  have  attempted  so  late  a  call  but  that 
a  friend  pointed  you  out  to-night  at  the  opera,  Mr. 
Brookfield,  and  said  that  your  habit  was — well — " 

"Not  to  retire  immediately?"  Jack  suggested. 

The  Justice  nodded  with  a  smile. 

"Will  you  be  seated?"  Brookfield  indicated  an 
easy-chair. 

78 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"  I'm  only  passing  through  the  city,"  said  the  Jus 
tice.  "  I  called  to  see  a  Corot  that  I  understand  you 
bought  from  Knoedler." 

"That's  it."  And  Brookfield  pointed  to  the  canvas 
which  earlier  in  the  evening  Clay  had  been  telling 
Viola  was  his  inspiration  for  the  decoration  of  the 
room. 

"Thank  you — you  don't  object  to  my  looking  at 
it?" 

"Not  at  all."  Brookfield  touched  a  button  and 
turned  on  the  battery  of  lights  above  the  picture. 
The  old  Justice  regarded  the  canvas  affectionately 
for  a  moment,  and  then  said: 

"That's  it.  I  thought  at  one  time  that  I  would 
buy  this  picture." 

"You  know  it,  then?" 

"Yes.  Are  you  particularly  attached  to  it,  Mr. 
Brookfield?" 

"I  think  not  irrevocably." 

"Oh." 

Brookfield,  divining  that  his  caller  was  a  possible 
purchaser,  took  from  the  table  a  pad  of  paper  and 
busied  himself  with  a  slight  computation  covering 
the  cost  of  the  Corot,  the  interest  on  the  invest 
ment,  and  the  like.  He  had  seated  himself  where  the 
table  interposed  between  his  hands  and  the  gaze  of 
his  visitor,  and  he  thought  himself  unobserved.  At 
any  rate,  the  Justice,  with  his  eyes  still  upon  the  can 
vas,  had  no  chance  to  see  him,  yet  after  a  moment's 
interval  he  inquired: 

"  Do  I  understand  that  is  what  you  paid  for  it,  or 
what  you  intend  to  ask  me  for  it?" 

79 


THE  WITCHING   HOUR 

"What?" 

"Sixty-five  hundred." 

Brookfield's  glance  involuntarily  sought  the  figures 
on  the  paper. 

"I  didn't  speak  the  price,  did  I?" 

"Didn't  you?  Oh" — the  Justice  paused  —  "I 
couldn't  pay  that  amount." 

"That's  its  price,  however,"  Brookfield  said,  struck 
by  the  remarkable  coincidence  between  the  sum 
named  and  the  one  he  had  written  on  the  pad. 

"I  regret  I  didn't  buy  it  from  the  dealer  when  I 
had  my  chance."  The  Justice  looked  about  the 
room.  "I  couldn't  have  given  it  so  beautiful  a  set 
ting,  Mr.  Brookfield,  nor  such  kindred,  but  it  would 
not  have  been  friendless." 

The  speaker  crossed  to  the  fireplace,  regarding  a 
second  canvas  that  was  hanging  there. 

"That's  a  handsome  marine." 

"Yes." 

"Pretty  idea  I  read  recently  in  an  essay  of  Dr. 
van  Dyke's — his  pictures  were  for  him  windows  by 
which  he  looked  out  from  his  study  into  the  world." 

There  was  no  answer  or  comment  from  Brookfield, 
and  the  Justice  added,  interrogatively: 

"Yes?" 

"Quite  so."     Brookfield  roused  from  his  reverie. 

The  Justice  left  off  contemplating  the  picture 
above  the  fireplace,  and  moved  to  another  hanging 
over  the  doorway  that  led  to  the  dining-room.  His 
back  was  now  fully  turned  toward  Brookfield,  who 
looked  at  him  with  an  increasing  interest.  The  Jus 
tice,  glancing  over  his  shoulder,  said : 

80 


THE   WITCHING  HOUR 

"M—  Washington." 

"What?" 

"My  home  is  Washington — I  thought  you  asked 
me." 

"No,  I  didn't,"  answered  Brookfield,  a  trifle  petu 
lantly. 

"I  beg  your  pardon."  And  again  the  Justice  fell 
to  looking  at  the  picture. 

Jack  rose  from  his  chair,  every  nerve  alert  and 
every  sense  taut  as  he  said  to  himself,  under  his 
breath : 

"But  I'm  damned  if  I  wasn't  just  going  to  ask 
him!" 

"And  the  phases  of  your  world,  Mr.  Brookfield, 
have  been  very  prettily  multiplied."  The  visitor  was 
looking  about  the  room  with  ordinary  ease,  and  ap 
parently  unaware  that  he  had  startled  his  host. 

"Thank  you,"  Brookfield  said,  answering  the  state 
ment.  "  May  I  offer  you  a  cigar  ?" 

"Thank  you,  I  won't  smoke." 

"Or  a  glass  of  wine?" 

"Nothing.  I  will  return  to  the  hotel,  first  asking 
you  again  to  excuse  my  untimely  call."  The  old 
gentleman  retraced  his  steps  across  the  room  to  a 
position  in  front  of  the  Corot,  taking  his  hat  from  the 
table  as  he  did  so,  preparatory  to  going. 

"I  wish  you'd  sit  down  awhile."  Brookfield  had 
a  desire  to  know  more  of  the  man.  The  Justice,  un 
mindful  of  the  interruption,  continued: 

"  But  I  didn't  know  until  I  missed  it  from  Knoed- 
ler's  how  large  a  part  of  my  world — my  dream-world 
— I  had  been  looking  at  through  that  frame." 

81 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"Well,  if  it's  a  sentimental  matter,  Mr.  Justice,  we 
might  talk  it  over." 

"I  mustn't  submit  the  sentimental  side  of  it,  Mr. 
Brookfield,  and  where  I  have  so — so  intruded." 

"That's  the  big  side  of  anything  for  me — the  senti 
mental." 

"I'm  sure  of  it — and  I  mustn't  take  advantage  of 
that  knowledge." 

"You're  sure  of  it?"  Brookfield  asked,  uneasily. 

"Yes." 

"Is  that  my  reputation?" 

"I  don't  know  your  reputation." 

"Then  how  are  you  sure  of  it?" 

"Oh,  I  see  you,"  said  the  Justice,  looking  at  him 
steadily,  "and — well,  we  have  met." 

For  the  second  time  that  night  Brookfield  was  con 
scious  of  that  pair  of  eyes ;  for  the  second  time  in  his 
life,  as  far  as  he  could  remember,  that  creepy  feeling 
of  unreasonable  fear  tingled  over  his  shoulders  and 
through  the  roots  of  his  hair.  Brookfield  felt,  as  the 
Justice  looked  at  him,  that  not  only  his  life  but  his 
mind  and  his  very  soul  were  open  books  to  that  pene 
trating  gaze.  There  was  in  it  nothing  of  menace,  yet 
it  required  all  of  Brookfield's  fortitude  to  meet  it. 
He  would  have  liked  to  speak — to  say  some  defensive 
thing,  but  he  uttered  only  an  impotent  and  half- 
audible  "Oh!" 

The  spell,  if  spell  it  were,  was  lifted  by  a  pleasant 
bow  from  the  Justice  and  an  equally  pleasant  "Good 
night."  The  old  gentleman  had  reached  the  doorway, 
and  was  in  the  hall  before  Brookfield  pulled  himself 
together  sufficiently  to  say: 

82 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"One  moment."  The  Justice  turned  inquiringly. 
"You  said  your  address  was  Washington?" 

"Yes." 

"You  thought  at  the  time  I  was  about  to  ask  you 
that  question?" 

"I  thought  you  had  asked  it,"  the  Justice  answered, 
quite  honestly  and  easily,  at  the  same  time  retracing 
his  steps  into  the  room. 

"And  you  thought  a  moment  before  I  had  said 
sixty-five  hundred  for  the  picture?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  often  pick  answers  that  way?"  Brookfield 
asked,  affecting  a  lightness  which  he  by  no  means 
felt. 

"Well,  I  think  we  all  do  at  times." 

"We  all  do?" 

"Yes;  but  we  speak  the  answers  only  as  we  get 
older  and  less  attentive,  and  mistake  a  person's 
thought  for  his  spoken  word." 

"A  person's  thought?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  know  what  I  think?" 
And  again,  although  this  time  there  was  nothing 
penetrating  in  the  old  man's  look,  Brookfield  felt  a 
premonition  of  that  creepy  feeling  in  the  shoulders. 
It  was  dissipated  by  the  human  quality  of  Prentice's 
reply. 

"I  hadn't  meant  to  claim  any  monopoly  of  that 
power.  It's  my  opinion  that  every  one  reads  the 
thoughts  of  others — that  is,  some  of  the  thoughts." 

"Everyone?" 

"Oh  yes." 

83 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"That  I  do?" 

' '  I  should  say  you  more  generally  than  the  majority 
of  men." 

There  was  a  moment's  fraternity  in  the  look  that 
the  Justice  now  fixed  upon  him — a  fraternity  that 
robbed  the  penetration  of  all  discomfiture. 

"There  was  a  woman  said  something  like  that  to 
me  not  ten  minutes  ago." 

"A  woman  would  be  very  apt  to  be  conscious 
of  it." 

Jack  looked  at  him,  not  altogether  without  be 
wilderment. 

"You  really  believe  that— that  stuff?" 

"Oh  yes;  and  I'm  not  a  pioneer  in  the  belief.  The 
men  who  declare  the  stuff  most  stoutly  are  scientists 
who  have  given  it  most  attention." 

"How  do  they  prove  it?" 

"They  don't  prove  it  —  that  is,  not  universally. 
Each  man  must  do  that  for  himself,  Mr.  Brookfield." 

"How?" 

The  Justice  smiled  patiently.  "Well,  I'll  tell  you 
all  I  know  of  it." 

Brookfield  had  taken  Helen's  chair  at  the  end  of 
the  table — was  leaning  forward  on  the  table  in  his 
eagerness.  The  Justice  again  put  down  his  hat,  and 
with  the  manner  of  a  man  who  felt  that  he  was  per 
forming  a  duty  to  an  inquirer,  and  with  an  entire 
absence  of  display,  he  said,  in  a  voice  the  melody  and 
modulation  of  which  Brookfield  was  beginning  to 
notice  pleasurably: 

"Every  thought  is  active — that  is,  born  of  a  desire 
— and  travels  from  us,  or  it  is  born  of  the  desire  of 

84 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

some  one  else  and  comes  to  us.     We  send  them  out 
or  we  take  them  in — that  is  all." 

"How  do  we  know  which  we  are  doing?" 

"If  we  are  idle  and  empty-headed  our  brains  are 
the  play-rooms  for  the  thoughts  of  others — frequently 
rather  bad.  If  we  are  active,  whether  benevolently 
or  malevolently,  our  brains  are  work-shops — power 
houses.  I  was  passively  regarding  the  picture.  Your 
active  idea  of  the  price  registered,  that  is  all;  so  did 
your  wish  to  know  where  I  was  from." 

Brookfield  moved  earnestly  and  uneasily  in  his 
chair.  He  started  ineffectually  to  say  something, 
and  then,  out  of  the  rush  of  questions  that  clamored 
for  answer,  he  blurted: 

"You  say  'our  brains.'    Do  you  still  include  mine  ?" 

"Yes."  " 

"You  said  mine  more  than  the  majority  of  men's?" 

"I  think  so." 

"Why  hasn't  this — whatever  it  is — effect  happened 
to  me,  then?" 

"It  has." 

"Why  didn't  I  know  it?" 

' '  Vanity — perhaps. ' ' 

"Vanity?" 

"Yes — often  some  friend  has  broached  some  inde 
pendent  subject,  and  you  have  said,  'I  was  just  going 
to  speak  of  that  myself. ": 

"Very  often;  but—" 

"Believing  the  idea  was  your  own,  your  vanity  shut 
out  the  probably  proper  solution  that  it  was  his." 

"Well,  how  then  does  a  man  tell  which  of  his 
thoughts  are  his  own?" 

85 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"It's  difficult — most  of  his  idle  ones  are  not. 
When  we  drift  we  are  with  the  current.  To  go 
against  it,  or  make  even  an  eddy  of  our  own,  we  must 
swim — most  everything  less  than  that  is  helpless." 

"Well,  I  haven't  been  exactly  helpless,"  Jack  said, 
smiling. 

"No  one  would  call  you  so,  Mr.  Brookfield — you 
have  a  strong  psychic — a  strong  hypnotic  power." 

"You  think  so?" 

"I  know  it." 

"This  business?"  Brookfield  mimicked  the  stereo 
typed  gesture  of  the  mesmerizer. 

"That  business,"  answered  Prentice,  smiling  at  the 
word,  "for  the  beginner." 

"You  mean  that  I  could  hypnotize  anybody?" 

"Many  persons — yes;  but  I  wouldn't  do  it  if  I  were 
vou."  And  the  Justice  took  his  hat  to  go. 

"Why  not?"  ' 

"Grave  responsibility." 

"In  what  way?" 

The  Justice  inhaled  deeply,  as  if  to  embark  upon 
an  extended  explanation ;  then  Brookfield  saw  a  wave 
of  fatigue  and  amusement  cross  his  face  as  the  extent 
of  his  proposed  undertaking  evidently  appalled  him. 
Perceiving  that  his  host  was  aware  of  this,  the  Justice 
answered,  with  a  smile  distinctly  paternal: 

"I'll  send  you  a  book  about  it — if  I  may." 

"Instructions?" 

"And  cautions — yes.  If  you  tire  of  your  Corot" — 
the  Justice  turned  again  to  the  door  and  the  picture 
hanging  beside  it — ' '  I  should  be  glad  to  hear  from  you." 

"Why  can't  I  save  postage  by  just  thinking  an- 
86 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

other  price?"  bantered  Brookfield,  following  the 
Justice  out  of  the  library. 

Prentice  met  him  in  his  own  spirit  as  he  replied: 
"The  laws  on  contracts  haven't  yet  recognized  that 
form  of  tender." 

Brookfield  had  said  good-night  to  his  visitor,  and 
was  lingering,  thoughtfully,  in  the  hallway  when 
the  sound  of  raised  voices  reached  his  ears.  He 
hurried  back  to  the  library,  wondering,  as  he  heard 
Denning's  tipsy  laugh,  what  mischief  he  was  up  to 
now. 

Despite  Ellinger's  efforts  to  control  Denning  the 
latter  had  continued  to  annoy  Clay  and  Viola  in  their 
very  amateur  attempts  at  billiards,  and  several  trips 
across  the  hall  to  the  sideboard  in  the  dining-room 
had  not  tended  to  improve  his  pleasantries.  From 
mere  playfulness  his  intrusions  had  taken  on  the  char 
acter  of  opposition;  this  opposition  had  developed 
into  ugliness,  and  finally  into  aggression.  In  all  of 
these  phases  his  attack  had  been  secretly  aggravated 
by  Hardmuth,  who  saw  with  delight  the  inexperienced 
boy,  under  the  strain  and  irritation,  appearing  in  less 
and  less  favorable  light  before  Viola. 

Once  when  Denning  had  confronted  Clay  at  the 
rail  of  the  billiard-table,  both  Ellinger  and  Viola,  who 
with  Hardmuth  constituted  the  remaining  company 
in  the  billiard-room,  had  noticed  the  boy  suddenly 
quail  and  turn  away  from  his  tormentor.  As  Denning 
again  approached  him  they  heard  Clay  suddenly  call 
out  in  evident  terror: 

"Don't  come  near  me  with  that  scarf-pin!" 
87 


THE  WITCHING   HOUR 

The  eccentricity  of  Clay's  aversion  called  Ellinger's 
attention  to  the  pin  which  the  young  millionaire  was 
wearing — an  ordinary  stick-pin  fitted  with  the  semi 
precious  stone  commonly  known  as  a  cat's-eye. 

Denning,  in  his  intoxication,  was  hardly  to  be 
blamed  for  not  understanding  the  character  of  Clay's 
objection  to  his  scarf-pin;  Ellinger  himself  didn't  un 
derstand  it;  but  the  boy's  excitement  when  the  pin 
came  within  the  range  of  his  vision  was  only  too 
evident. 

As  Denning  followed  him  Clay  threw  his  cue  on 
the  table  and  started  to  leave  the  room.  Denning, 
in  a  return  of  playfulness,  caught  the  boy  by  the 
shoulder  and  turned  him  so  that  they  faced  each 
other. 

"What's  the  matter  with  my  scarf-pin?" 

"I  don't  like  it,"  Clay  answered,  as  he  covered  his 
eyes  with  his  hand. 

"Well,  I  don't  like  your  face,"  the  young  rowdy 
retorted,  annoyed  by  the  criticism. 

Viola,  alarmed  at  the  occurrence  which  had  now 
taken  on  almost  the  character  of  a  physical  conflict, 
went  quickly  from  the  room  in  search  of  her  mother 
and  Mrs.  Whipple.  The  boy,  breaking  from  his  tor 
mentor,  ran  across  the  hallway  and  through  the  din 
ing-room  as  Denning,  with  a  view  to  intercepting  him, 
lurched  into  the  library  from  which  Justice  Prentice 
and  Brookfield  had  just  gone. 

"J'ever  see  anything's  funny  as  that?  He  don't 
like  my  scarf-pin.  Well,  I  don't  like  it,  but  my  valet 
put  it  on  me,  and  what's  the  difference?" 

Hardmuth,  who  had  missed  the  explanation  for  the 
88 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

explosive  conduct  of  the  boy,  followed  Ellinger  and 
Denning. 

"What  was  that?" 

"My  scarf-pin,"  answered  Denning. 

"Scarf-pin?" 

"Yes;  he  pushed  me  away  from  him,  and  I  said, 
'What's  the  matter?'  He  said,  'I  don't  like  your 
scarf  -  pin '; 'and  I  said,  'Don't?  I  don't  like  your 
face.'" 

"That  was  very  impolite,  with  a  lady  there,"  El- 
linger  said. 

"Why  should  he  criticise  Tom's  scarf-pin?"  Hard- 
muth  asked,  combatively. 

"Exactly,"  continued  Denning.  "I  said,  T  can 
change  my  scarf-pin,  but  I  don't  like  your  face." 

At  this  moment  Clay  entered  from  the  dining-room 
and  moved  toward  the  hallway. 

"Where's  Jack?"  he  paused  to  ask  Ellinger. 

"Saying  good-night  to  some  old  gentleman  below." 

Denning  grabbed  the  boy  by  the  lapel  of  the  coat 
as  he  was  going,  and  repeated,  in  a  brow -beating 
manner: 

"And  I  don't  like  your  face." 

"That's  all  right,  Mr.  Denning."  Clay  tried  to 
pass  him.  "Excuse  me." 

"Excuse  me,"  echoed  Denning,  as  he  held  on  to  the 
boy,  and  at  the  same  time,  with  his  disengaged  hand, 
drew  the  scarf-pin  from  his  tie,  "what's  the  matter 
with  that  scarf-pin?" 

"It's  a  cat's-eye,"  answered  the  boy,  tremblingly, 
"and  I  don't  like  them,  that's  all — I  don't  like  to 
look  at  them." 

89 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"Let  him  alone,  Tom,"  Ellinger  expostulated. 

"Damned  if  he  ain't  scared  of  it!"  laughed  Denning, 
waving  the  pin  in  annoying  proximity  to  the  boy's 
face. 

"Don't  do  that!"  Clay  screamed,  in  tones  that  were 
audible  through  the  hallways. 

"It  won't  bite  you, will  it?"  Hardmuth  sneered, in 
manifest  contempt  for  the  boy's  weakness. 

"It  will  bite  him,"  Denning  answered,  pushing  the 
pin  against  Clay's  cheek  and  barking  in  imitation  of 
a  dog. 

"Don't,  I  tell  you — don't!"  screamed  the  boy. 

"Bow-wow-wow!"  persisted  the  drunkard. 

The  lad  made  a  frantic  effort  to  free  himself  from 
Denning,  and  with  both  hands  succeeded  in  pushing 
him  a  step  or  two  away.  Denning,  cheered  on  by 
the  applause  and  laughter  of  Hardmuth,  as  well  as 
by  the  mere  physical  excitement  of  the  contest, 
lurched  toward  the  boy  again,  waving  the  objection 
able  pin  before  him.  Clay  turned  to  escape — the 
table  was  in  his  way.  As  his  hands  fell  upon  it  one 
of  them  mechanically  clutched  the  large  ivory  paper- 
cutter  lying  on  the  table.  Without  intent  to  injure, 
with  no  motive  but  to  escape,  with  nothing  but  the 
instinctive  resistance  of  a  hunted  animal,  the  boy 
struck  in  the  direction  of  his  pursuer.  The  heavy 
tusk — of  greater  weight  than  an  equal  billet  of  green 
oak — caught  Denning  just  above  the  temple.  A 
second  and  a  third  time  Clay  struck  with  the  unrea 
soning  impulse  of  panic  and  defence.  The  drunkard 
swayed  a  moment  under  the  blows,  and  fell,  an  inert 
mass,  at  the  feet  of  Ellinger  just  as  Brookfield,  having 

90 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

dismissed  his  visitor  and  alarmed  by  the  cries,  came 
hurriedly  into  the  room.  Brookfield  saw  the  falling 
figure;  he  saw  the  frightened  and  livid  boy,  scarcely 
understanding  what  he  had  done  and  yet  aghast  at 
what  he  comprehended.  Jack  called  to  him. 

"He  pushed  that  horrible  cat's-eye  right  against  my 
face!"  the  boy  cried,  with  trembling  lips. 

"What  cat's-eye?" 

"Only  playing  with  him,"  Hardmuth  answered, 
with  the  bitterness  of  the  prosecutor,  as  he  stooped 
and  picked  up  the  jewel — "a  scarf-pin." 

Ellinger  was  kneeling  over  Denning,  and  tried  to 
lift  his  head.  He  now  turned,  and,  in  laconic  phrase 
ology  most  familiar  to  his  hearers,  said: 

"He's  out,  Jack." 

Brookfield  also  knelt  beside  him,  critically  examin 
ing  the  stricken  man. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  him,"  Clay  lamented — "real 
ly  I  didn't  mean  that!" 

"The  hell  you  didn't!"  Hardmuth  accused,  taking 
the  paper-cutter  from  the  boy.  "Why,  you  could  kill 
a  bull  with  that  ivory  tusk!" 

Jo  and  Harvey,  the  darky  servants,  had  entered 
the  room.  Mrs.  Campbell,  having  been  on  an  upper 
floor,  had  not  heard  the  cries  of  the  boy,  but  had 
decided  to  leave  the  house  upon  the  report  which 
Viola  had  brought  from  the  billiard-room.  She  had 
now  come  to  announce  her  departure. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  her  brother  commanded.  Then 
speaking  to  the  negroes,  he  said,  "Help  Mr.  El- 
linger  put  him  on  the  window-seat — give  him  some 
air." 

7  91 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

Brookfield  pointed  into  the  dining-room.  Ellinger 
and  the  darkies  carried  Denning  from  the  library. 

''What  is  it?"  Mrs.  Campbell  inquired,  startled  at 
the  scene  before  her. 

"An  accident,"  Jack  answered.  "Keep  Helen  and 
Viola  out  of  these  rooms." 

"Hadn't  we  better  go?     Clay  is  with  us." 

"I  can't  go  just  now,  Mrs.  Campbell,"  Clay  said, 
following  the  figure  of  Denning  as  it  was  carried  from 
the  room.  "I  hope  it  isn't  serious--!  didn't  mean  to 
hurt  him — really." 

"A  quarrel?"  Mrs.  Campbell  queried,  looking  from 
her  brother  to  Hardmuth. 

There  was  a  momentary  pause  as  the  men's  eyes 
followed  the  direction  in  which  Denning  had  been 
carried  out.  Ellinger  now  returned  to  Brookfield  with 
a  single  gesture  of  hopeless  import. 

"A  murder!"  ±1,      .ruth  answered. 

His  reply  was  o^  eard  by  Mrs.  Whipple  and  Viola 
as  they  entered' tho  .  oom.  Before  they  co^ld  inquire 
its  meaning  Clay,  wild-eyed  and  terror-st  .en,  °ame 
running  from  the  dining-room,  calling  as  he  saw  h:'s 
mother: 

"I've  killed  him,  mother!     I've  killed  him!" 

"Killed  him!— whom?" 

"Tom  Denning,"  Hardmuth  made  reply,  in  per 
sistent  accusation. 

"But  I  never  meant  it!"  Clay  cried,  pathetically. 
"I  just  struck  him,  Jack — struck  wild!" 

"With  this,"  Hardmuth  added,  malevolently,  hold 
ing  the  ivory  tusk  bludgeon  fashion. 

"With  that—  Oh,  my  boy!"  And  Helen  took 
92 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

the  trembling  lad  in  her  arms.  Tears  were  in  Viola's 
eyes. 

"That  will  do,"  said  Brookfield,  taking  command 
of  the  situation;  "that  will  do,  everybody." 

The  agitated  group  became  for  the  moment  obedi 
ent  and  attentive. 

"  Lew,  telephone  Dr.  Monroe  it's  an  emergency  case, 
and  to  come  in  his  dressing-gown  and  slippers." 
Ellinger  left  the  room.  "Alice,  I  know  you're  not 
afraid  of  a  sick  man — or — that  sort  of  thing.  Help 
me  and  Jo."  Brookfield  put  his  arm  about  his  sister 
preparatory  to  leading  her  to  where  Denning's  pros 
trate  form  lay,  turned,  and,  addressing  his  niece,  said, 
"Viola,  you  take  Mrs.  Whipple  up-stairs  and  wait 
there." 

Hardmuth,  craftily  assuming  a  part  in  the  general 
atmosphere  of  action,  started  for  the  hall,  saying  as 
he  did  so: 

"  I'll  notify  the  police." 

The  words  struck  the  women  like  a  blow.  Helen's 
heart-broken  moan  was  lost  in  the  imperative  "  Stop!" 
that  rang  out  from  Brookfield ;  then,  interposing  him 
self  between  Hardmuth  and  the  doorway,  he  added, 
in  a  tone  of  unmistakable  menace: 

"You'll  stay  just  where  you  are!" 

"Are  you  trying  to  hide  this  thing?"  Hardmuth 
challenged. 

"The  doctor  will  tell  us  exactly  what  this  thing 
is,"  Jack  answered,  with  undiminished  positiveness, 
"and  then  the  boy  will  have  the  credit  himself  of 
notifying  the  police." 


VII 

nPHE  testimony  of  eye-witnesses,  all  anxious  to  be 
1  honest,  is  difficult  to  reconcile.  The  difficulty 
increases  with  time,  even  though  the  anxiety  to  be 
honest  persists.  Impressions  grow  dim,  vivid  mental 
reflections  get  mistaken  for  actual  happenings,  prej 
udice  colors,  discolors,  or  bleaches  recollection ;  things 
heard  are  remembered  as  things  seen;  inaccuracies 
repeated  take  on  the  authority  of  fact — all  this  in 
the  testimony  of  eye-witnesses.  Add  to  that  the 
emphasis  and  exaggeration  of  the  fairest  -  minded 
hearsay,  and  to  this  the  distortion  of  intentional 
misrepresentation,  and  we  have  the  matrix  in  which 
the  public  estimate  of  an  occurrence  is  cast. 

A  murder  in  the  gambling-house  of  Brookfield,  al 
though  mainly  dependent  upon  causes  utterly  un 
connected  with  the  business  of  the  establishment, 
was  soon  accepted  as  a  natural  consequence  of  that 
business,  as  an  unanswerable  argument  for  the  sup 
pression  of  it,  and  also  as  an  added  reason  for  the 
ostracism  of  the  proprietor. 

The  game  at  Brookfield's  closed. 

The  public  attributed  this  to  fear.  The  real  cause 
was  Brookfield's  sensitiveness  and  sympathy.  An  ir 
reparable  calamity  had  befallen  the  woman  he  loved. 
Her  son  was  to  be  tried  for  his  life,  because  of  an 

94 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

offence  growing  out  of  a  situation  for  which  he  felt 
himself  measurably  responsible.  Viola,  the  niece 
whom  Brookfield  loved  with  a  tenderness  exceeding 
that  of  many  a  father,  was  suffering  an  affliction  al 
most  equal  to  that  of  Helen  herself. 

During  the  first  weeks  of  Clay's  imprisonment,  the 
time  covered  by  the  notoriety  and  comment,  by  the 
application  for  bail  and  its  refusal,  by  the  coroner's 
inquiry  and  the  indictment,  Hardmuth  had  ap 
proached  Brookfield  with  a  covert  proposal  to  lessen 
the  rigor  of  the  prosecution  if  given  assurance  that 
Viola  would  accept  him  as  a  suitor.  The  arrange 
ment  had  been  suggested  with  an  indirection  of  which 
Hardmuth  was  a  master,  but  this  approach,  skilful 
as  it  was,  precipitated  a  collision  between  him  and 
Brookfield  that  stopped  all  sentimental  pretence  on 
Hardmuth's  side  and  all  hope  in  the  mind  of  Brook- 
field  for  any  consideration  at  the  hands  of  the  prose 
cution. 

Brookfield's  energies  and  resources  were  at  once 
conserved  and  applied  to  the  task  of  liberating  Clay 
from  the  consequences  of  Denning's  death. 

The  best  legal  talent  was  retained.  The  para 
phernalia  of  the  gambling  -  house  was  sold.  Mrs. 
Campbell  and  Viola  were  induced  to  give  up  their 
own  apartments  and  again  make  their  home  with 
Brookfield.  Helen,  whose  need  to  be  near  her  son 
made  a  protracted  stay  in  Louisville  probable,  was 
persuaded  to  join  them.  Their  common  affliction 
united  them  in  one  intimate  and  sympathetic  family 
group. 

The  long  delay  necessary  to  the  preparation  of  the 

95 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

case,  both  by  the  prosecution  and  by  the  defence,  was 
filled  with  weary  days  of  corroding  anxiety. 

All  that  money  and  affection  could  provide  in  the 
prison  conditions  as  they  then  existed  in  Louisville  was 
procured  for  Clay.  The  old  Jefferson  Street  jail  was 
not  a  sanitary  structure.  That  part  of  the  building 
in  which  Clay  was  lodged  was  lighted  and  ventilated 
only  by  a  skylight  above  the  court,  around  which  ran 
three  tiers  of  cells,  each  tier  opening  onto  an  iron 
gallery  or  balcony,  on  which  the  prisoners  took  their 
daily  exercise.  The  associates  of  the  boy,  during  this 
waiting  period  of  incarceration,  were  two  or  three 
men  like  himself,  under  indictment  for  capital  offences, 
and  a  varying  number  from  thirty  to  fifty  charged 
with  felonies  and  lesser  crimes. 

Through  the  influence  of  Brookfield  and  the  sym 
pathy  of  the  jailer,  Clay  was  permitted  to  have  a  lit 
tle  cell  to  himself.  Permission  was  also  given  to  fur 
nish  the  cell  with  such  simple  necessities  as  the  boy 
had  been  accustomed  to  have,  and  to  send  in  meals 
superior  to  the  usual  prison  fare  from  an  adjacent 
restaurant. 

The  most  liberal  construction  in  Clay's  case  was 
also  put  upon  the  rules  that  governed  visits  to  the 
prisoners  by  their  friends.  At  some  time  during  every 
day  Viola  and  his  mother  called  on  him.  There  were 
encouraging  visits  from  the  attorneys,  and  once  or 
twice  each  week  Brookfield  dropped  in  to  cheer  him. 

Brookfield's  time,  however,  in  the  main,  was  de 
voted  to  securing  such  expert  testimony  as  would 
strengthen  the  contention  of  the  defence,  which  the 
lawyers  had  decided  should  rest  upon  the  inherited 

96 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

physical  aversion  that  Clay  had  for  the  cat's-eye.  To 
establish  the  existence  of  these  idiosyncrasies,  Brook- 
field  read  all  the  books  upon  the  subject  of  which  the 
conversation  of  the  experts  gave  him  any  hint. 

In  the  related  field  of  psychology,  which  this  read 
ing  opened  up  to  him,  Brookfield  found  that  a  fasci 
nating  advance  had  been  made  since  the  date  of  the 
text-books  he  had  perfunctorily  read  in  his  college 
days. 

Naturally  superstitious  as  he  was,  with  an  imag 
ination  more  than  normally  active,  Brookfield  found 
himself  standing  on  the  threshold  of  a  world  un 
known — in  the  presence  of  a  power,  a  knowledge  of 
which  he  believed  would  explain  all  that  had  been 
mysterious  and  baleful  in  his  life.  It  seemed  to  him 
as  though  behind  the  screen  of  material  appearance, 
and  behind  the  web  of  tangible  events,  there  was  a 
force  at  work  with  an  intent  as  definite  as  the  purpose 
of  an  artistic  weaver — an  intent  to  combine  appar 
ently  unrelated  threads  into  figure,  pattern,  and  de 
sign —  a  force  throwing  its  willing,  unconscious, 
frightened,  reluctant,  or  rebellious  shuttles  through 
the  warp  of  time,  weaving  with  events  its  own  robe, 
through  the  form  and  texture  and  decoration  of  which 
the  spirit  of  things  might  be  faintly  apprehended.  In 
the  hands  of  these  forces  it  seemed  to  Brookfield  that 
he  himself  and  all  his  friends  and  acquaintances  were 
but  puppets. 

No  event,  no  material  thing,  seemed  accident  or 
accidental. 

The  visit  of  the  opera  company  that  had  brought 
Hardmuth  and  Clay  into  relation  and  into  opposition 

97 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

over  Viola  was  a  thread  in  the  web  of  fate;  his 
own  boyish  desire  for  the  paper-cutter  two- and - 
twenty  years  before  was  an  immediate  antecedent  to 
its  readiness  as  a  weapon  when  Clay  was  impelled  to 
strike;  Helen's  accidental  dropping  of  it  from  the 
table  to  the  floor  when  Brookfield  was  proposing  to 
her  was  a  notable  intimation,  by  fate,  that  there 
would  be  this  interruption  to  the  courtship.  This 
and  a  thousand  other  facts  and  incidents  in  his  ca 
reer  seemed  so  closely  interknit  and  articulated  that 
Brookfield  felt  himself  helpless  in  a  universe  of  steel. 

He  was  in  this  condition  of  introspection  and  ap 
prehension  when  he  found  one  night,  after  a  busy  and 
nerve-racking  day  of  interviews,  a  somewhat  sub 
stantial  packet  on  his  table  bearing  the  post-mark 
"Washington."  Brookfield  opened  it.  The  packet 
contained  a  note  from  Justice  Prentice  and  a  book  on 
psychic  phenomena,  which  the  jurist  on  his  visit  had 
promised  to  send  him  and  now  recommended  to  his 
attention. 

Brookfield  read  the  book  in  one  night.  It  was  a 
scientific  treatise  almost  devoid  of  technical  terms, 
and  addressed  to  the  understanding  of  the  layman. 
It  set  forth  in  simple,  convincing,  and  logical  pro 
cession  a  working  hypothesis  which  gave  him  his  first 
tangible  hold  on  the  question  that  haunted  him. 

Granting  the  difference  between  various  and  per 
haps  equally  valuable  definitions  of  the  two  sides  of 
the  human  mind,  the  author  of  the  book,  for  the  sake 
of  clearness  in  the  mental  picture  he  wished  his  reader 
to  make,  assumed  that  each  individual  was  the  pos 
sessor  of  two  minds.  The  one  of  these  two  minds  the 

98 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

more  in  evidence  and  more  consciously  possessed,  the 
mind  of  our  daily  voluntary  conduct  and  business,  the 
mind  that  holds  communication  with  other  minds 
through  the  means  of  the  five  senses,  he  called  the  ob 
jective  mind. 

This  objective  mind,  with  its  five  avenues  of  in 
formation,  approach,  and  communication,  was  the 
temporary  custodian,  employer,  teacher,  and  provider 
for  a  second  mind  more  enduring  and  more  richly 
stored  than  the  objective  mind ;  more  reliable  also,  in 
that  it  had  charge  of  all  the  automatic  action  already 
possessed  by  the  individual  organism,  and  constantly 
took  under  its  care  all  conduct  that  became  habitual 
or  automatic ;  more  powerful  than  the  objective  mind, 
in  that  it  never  slept,  never  forgot,  never  tired;  wiser 
than  the  objective  mind,  in  that  it  had  access  to  every 
other  mind  and  to  the  knowledge  of  every  other  mind 
on  the  same  subjective  plane  as  itself. 

Brookfield  had  one  mental  quality  that  distinguish 
ed  him  in  a  degree  from  most  of  his  fellows.  His 
power  of  visualization  was  greater  than  theirs.  Such 
ideas  as  were  capable  of  graphic  representation  he  saw 
in  pictures ;  ideas  that  might  not  be  so  represented  he 
saw  in  diagrams. 

It  is  probable  that  this  ability  to  form  a  clear  picture 
in  the  mind  is  the  one  that,  according  to  the  degree 
of  its  possession,  determines  the  degree  of  a  man's 
success.  It  is  probable  that  the  strongest  individual 
will  in  the  world  would  accomplish  but  little  if  its 
owner  could  form  no  conception  of  what  he  desired. 
It  is  probable,  on  the  other  hand,  that  a  thing  desired 
can  be  obtained  by  a  man  of  very  ordinary  will  power 

99 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

if  a  clear  picture  of  that  thing  can  be  persistently 
held  in  the  mind. 

"Where  there's  a  will  there's  a  way"  is  true  only 
when  the  will  is  guided  by  the  light  of  a  defined 
desire. 

Brookfield  had  a  will.  He  had  also  the  ability  of 
visualization.  Along  his  chosen  line  Brookfield  was 
a  success. 

As  he  read  the  illuminating  hypothesis  of  the  author 
whose  book  Prentice  had  sent  him,  his  vivid  concep 
tion  outshone  the  description  in  the  volume.  He  saw 
before  him  a  picture  of  the  sea.  Over  the  deep  bosom 
of  the  water  were  billows,  waves,  and  individual  crests 
separating  into  drops  of  blown  spray.  To  his  mind's 
eye  these  drops  and  crests  and  waves  and  billows 
symbolized  the  objective  minds  of  individuals,  fami 
lies,  communities,  and  peoples  sprung  from  an  ocean 
of  infinite  mind  of  which  each  was  part  and  with 
which  each  and  all  had  possible  communication. 

Brookfield's  own  mind  by  constitution,  by  habit, 
and  by  a  certain  fallowness  was  most  fertile  soil  for 
an  invited  analogy  of  this  kind.  The  pictured  idea 
took  possession  of  him. 

He  sat  alone  in  his  library.  His  imagination  made 
the  silence  vocal  with  the  hum  of  subtle  and  mys 
terious  power.  On  every  side  of  him  wherever  his 
gaze  fell  it  encountered  some  object  acquired  in  re 
sponse  to  an  apparently  vagrant  whim,  yet  now  all  of 
these  became  intelligently  eloquent  and  collaborative 
of  the  message  he  was  just  apprehending.  Brook- 
field's  habitual  mental  poise  was  for  the  moment  too 
disturbed  to  enable  him  to  see  that  the  tonal  agree- 

100 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

ment  between  the  objects  was  easily  referable  to  the 
one  taste  and  temperament  that  had  dictated  their 
choice  and  collection.  When  a  lessening  agitation 
did  permit  the  approach  of  this  idea  he  saw  in  that 
explanation  itself  only  a  more  profound  plan  and  pre- 
arrangement. 

Over  the  mantel  of  this  room,  as  over  the  mantel  in 
the  dining-room,  was  a  marine  painting  built  into  the 
wood-work — a  tossing  sea  with  crests  of  spray. 

Brookfield  was  startled,  not  so  much  to  note  that 
the  painted  picture  was  the  counterpart  of  the  mental 
picture  he  had  conjured,  as  he  was  at  his  failure  to 
associate  the  painting  and  its  mental  reflection  at  the 
first  moment.  This  very  dissociation  gave  the  canvas 
mystic  importance  and  ambassadorial  authority. 

The  room  was  lighted  by  the  hooded  electrolier 
under  which  Brookfield  had  been  reading.  Its  shade 
threw  a  half-gloom  over  walls  and  ceiling,  a  half- 
gloom  made  unstable  and  wavering  by  the  flicker  of 
the  open  fire.  From  the  big  clock  in  the  hall  a  soft 
contralto  bell  struck  two. 

Beneath  the  painting  on  the  mantel  was  a  bronze 
cast  of  the  Antommarchi  death-mask  of  Napoleon ;  the 
inert  touch  of  the  lower  lip  against  the  uncovered 
teeth  seemed  trembling  into  the  pronunciation  of 
fate.  On  the  other  side  of  the  room  a  sculptured 
Sphinx  crouched  on  the  book-shelves ;  Brookfield  had 
brought  it  as  a  souvenir  from  the  Nile.  It  had  been 
in  its  present  place  some  fifteen  years  without  ever 
once  living  until  now. 

Over  the  door  to  the  hallway  was  a  marble  bust  of 
Pallas,  with  the  raven  perched  upon  it;  on  another 

101 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

bookcase  rested  the  Donatello  head  of  Dante;  a  re 
production  of  the  well-known  mask  of  Beethoven, 
the  mystic  of  melody,  hung  near  by.  Brookfield  look 
ed  in  turn  upon  these  several  objects.  The  profun 
dity  of  the  men  whose  masks  and  portraits  were  about 
him ;  the  solemn  riddle  of  the  Sphinx ;  the  placidity  of 
the  goddess  of  wisdom  beneath  the  bird  of  doubt; 
the  circling,  embracing,  symbolizing  infinitude  of  the 
sea — each  spoke  to  him  of  the  restful  deep  in  which  all 
reposed;  the  infinite,  all-wise  Mind,  watchful,  com 
municating,  benign;  the  one  force  for  which  his  mind 
had  been  groping,  the  force  behind  the  texture  of 
material  appearance. 

The  objects  in  the  room  were  related  in  significance, 
not  because  his  conscious  taste  had  chosen  them,  but 
because  a  power  behind  him  wiser  than  himself  had 
done  so — a  power  to  which  he  also  bore  expressive 
relation. 

Most  men  awaken  so — that  is,  through  the  recogni 
tion  of  the  significance  of  some  important  symbol, 
whatever  that  symbol  be :  a  thing  or  an  event,  a  ban 
ner  or  a  bereavement. 

The  time  was  coming  for  Brookfield,  as  for  all  men, 
when  the  vibrating  wire  in  the  electric  lamp  over  his 
table,  or  the  embossed  swirl  on  the  cover  of  Khayyam, 
would  be  as  eloquent  as  the  tragic  face  of  the  dead 
emperor;  when  nothing  in  the  universe,  animate  or 
inanimate,  would  again  be  mute.  But  for  the  present 
the  objects  about  him  were  particular  and  accredited 
messengers. 

The  truth  which  Brookfield  felt  he  had  grasped, 
the  truth  reconnoitred  by  his  recent  psychological 

102 


THE  WITCHING   HOUR 

reading,  the  truth  cogently  expressed  in  the  book 
from  Justice  Prentice,  the  truth  insinuated  by  the 
objects  of  art  with  which  he  had  surrounded  him 
self  was,  as  he  interpreted  it,  the  essential  oneness  of 
all  life,  the  essentially  same  significance  of  all  things. 
By  its  light  the  years  of  what  he  had  been  pleased  to 
call  intellectual  improvement  and  growth  in  culture 
seemed  years  of  arrested  development,  even  years  of 
retrogression  —  nothing  was  of  value  that  had  not 
made  for  spiritual  unfoldment ;  and  as  he  reviewed  his 
life  Brookfield  felt  that  he  had  hitherto  walked  in 
Cimmerian  night. 

For  this  new  thought,  this  new  conception  of  life 
that  possessed  him,  the  house  seemed  small  and 
stifling.  Brookfield  took  his  hat  and  coat  and  went 
noiselessly  into  the  street,  went  from  the  sculptured, 
the  painted,  and  printed  symbols  in  his  room  into  the 
chill  and  tonic  air,  under  the  denuded  moving  branches 
of  the  trees  through  whose  tracery  and  the  etheric 
blue  the  stars  were  shining  in  glittering  kinship. 

As  these  bright  luminaries  paled  in  the  winter  dawn, 
Brookfield,  physically  weary  but  mentally  and  spirit 
ually  calmed,  found  himself  pacing  the  sidewalk  near 
the  jail  wherein  Clay  was  confined  with  so  many 
others  for  whom,  in  their  error  and  misfortune,  Brook- 
field  had  in  his  heart  a  fresh  compassion. 


VIII 

law  is  terrible  in  its  earnestness.  However 
1  insignificant  its  various  human  instruments  may 
be,  there  is  a  compelling  majesty  about  the  spirit  of 
the  law  itself  when  once  that  spirit  is  invoked.  The 
detached  juryman,  unlettered,  uninformed,  simple 
and  primitive  in  his  mental  processes,  less  than  un 
important  in  his  social  usefulness  or  position,  associ 
ated  with  eleven  of  his  kind,  forms  a  body  ominous 
and  imposing,  when  endowed  with  the  legal  and  awe- 
inspiring  function  of  verdict. 

The  criminal  court-room  in  Louisville  compares 
favorably  in  almost  every  respect  with  the  cham 
bers  of  its  kind  in  America.  It  is  sufficiently  am 
ple,  adequately  equipped,  well  ventilated.  Few  court 
rooms  in  America,  however,  surpass  it  in  cheerlessness. 
Facing  the  judge's  dais,  six  bleak  windows  and  a 
transom  look  upon  the  stucco  wall  of  the  old  court 
house;  to  the  right,  four  equally  cheerless  windows 
look  on  to  the  dead  walls  of  the  adjoining  shops; 
to  the  left,  two  still  more  cheerless  windows  look  upon 
an  open  court  of  dingy  and  painted  brick;  on  the 
wall  behind  the  judge,  and  to  either  side  of  him, 
similar  windows  look  out  upon  the  manufactur 
ing  establishments  that  flank  this  new  chamber  in 
the  annex.  Dingy  canvases  in  dingier  gilt  frames 

104 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

bear  the  almost  stencilled  faces  of  uncertain  politi 
cians. 

The  floor  space  of  the  room  is  divided  by  iron  rail 
ings  into  three  compartments — one  end  reserved  for 
white  spectators,  one  end  for  negroes,  while  the  trial 
itself,  with  its  actors,  composed  of  prisoner,  contend 
ing  counsel,  judge,  jurymen,  and  distinguished  visi 
tors,  occupies  the  middle  division.  Behind  the  jury 
men,  whose  backs  are  to  the  pen  of  the  white  spec 
tators,  a  second  rail  some  four  feet  from  that  of  the 
enclosure  establishes  a  moral  vacuum  through  which 
no  sinister  material  influence  may  touch  one  of  the 
insulated  twelve. 

The  trial  of  the  case  of  The  People  vs.  Whipple  was 
a  cause  celbbre.  The  youth  of  the  prisoner  and  his 
respectable  connections,  his  education,  the  unpro 
voked  character  of  his  crime  as  the  public  understood 
it  $  the  almost  deliberate  killing  of  a  friend  who  had 
only  ridiculed  him,  and  quite  playfully  at  that,  con 
cerning  his  lack  of  skill  at  billiards;  the  promised 
revelations  of  the  interior  of  a  notorious  gambling- 
house,  always  a  place  of  curiosity  to  the  newspaper 
reader,  together  with  other  factors,  combined  to 
stimulate  an  interest  in  the  proceedings. 

After  the  first  day  or  two  the  distinction  of  the 
prisoner's  friends  who  were  with  him  in  the  court 
room,  and  especially  the  reported  beauty  of  his  sweet 
heart,  increased  the  general  wish  to  be  present. 

Nor  was  there  anything  deterring  in  the  reputation 
of  counsel.  The  victim  had  been  the  son  of  one  of 
Missouri's  wealthiest  packers.  According  to  the 
newspapers,  the  attitude  of  this  man  toward  the  ac- 

105 


THE  WITCHING   HOUR 

cused  was  one  of  great  vengefulness.  His  money 
had  been  freely  offered  to  assist  the  attorneys  for  the 
State  in  retaining  associate  counsel ;  it  had  also  been 
used  to  secure  the  services  of  physicians  of  national 
reputation  who,  it  was  understood,  would  testify  in 
rebuttal  of  certain  other  eminent  specialists  secured 
by  the  defence. 

Although  the  case  for  the  people  was  ostensibly 
in  the  hands  of  the  prosecuting  attorney,  its  direct 
ing  genius  was  that  officer's  assistant,  Mr.  Hardmuth. 

The  associated  counsel  for  the  defence  were  mis 
led  by  the  prosecution's  apparent  indifference  to  the 
character  of  the  jurymen  during  their  selection. 
These  legal  gentlemen  even  began  to  hope  that  some 
covert  leniency  was  to  be  indulged  in  by  the  repre 
sentatives  of  the  State. 

It  was  Brookfield  who,  sitting  with  the  family  dur 
ing  those  two  or  three  preliminary  days,  and  occa 
sionally  consulting  with  the  lawyers  for  the  defence, 
had  discovered  what  ultimately  proved  to  be  the 
guiding  intention  in  the  prosecution's  selection  of  the 
jury.  This  discovery  may  have  been  due  to  Brook- 
field's  keen  knowledge  of  human  nature,  surpassing, 
perhaps,  that  of  the  counsel;  it  may  have  been  due 
to  an  especial  knowledge  of  the  character  of  Hard 
muth;  or  it  may  have  been  due,  as  Brookfield  him 
self  began  to  suspect,  to  some  subtle  telepathic  rela 
tion  between  the  prosecutor  and  himself.  But  what 
ever  the  means  of  the  discovery,  the  fact  developed 
that  Hardmuth,  by  persistency  of  intention  and  by  the 
failure  of  an  opposing  preparation  on  the  part  of  the 
defence,  had  secured  a  jury  singularly  dull  and  no- 

106 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

ticeably  phlegmatic — a  jury  to  whom  an  appeal  upon 
any  ground  of  alleged  nervous  excitability  would  be 
made  in  vain.  The  appreciation  of  this  fact,  when 
Brookfield  had  called  it  to  their  attention,  caused  more 
consternation  in  the  ranks  of  the  defence's  counsel  than 
any  other  element  in  the  case.  Eliminate  the  con 
sideration  due  to  an  inherited  nervous  idiosyncrasy, 
and  the  defence  was  left  without  a  single  extenuating 
plea. 

The  outline  of  the  State's  case  removed  all  doubt 
as  to  their  method.  According  to  the  calm,  judicial, 
regretful  utterances  of  the  State's  attorney,  the  twelve 
men  in  the  double  row  of  tilting  swivel-chairs  were 
called  together  to  hear  the  story  of  a  deliberate  and 
spiteful  killing — a  killing  of  one  friend  by  another, 
who  had  been  frequently  a  beneficiary  of  the  man  he 
had  made  his  victim,  who  had  been  frequently  the 
antagonist  of  that  man  in  games  of  chance,  for  which 
games  the  two  had  often  met  in  the  house  where  the 
tragedy  occurred.  The  prisoner  had  been  a  uniform 
loser,  had  lost  sums  considerable  to  himself,  but  of 
no  importance  to  his  victim  who  had  won  them.  This 
regularity  of  loss  and  envy  of  the  prisoner  for  the 
better  fortune,  both  at  cards  and  in  life,  which  the 
dead  man  had  enjoyed  had  built  up  in  the  heart  of 
the  prisoner  a  hate  of  his  companion  as  deep  and  as 
enduring  as  it  had  been  gradual  in  growth;  it  was  a 
hate  none  the  less  terrible  because  its  object  was  un 
aware  of  its  existence.  The  poor  boy  who  had  been 
killed  on  the  night  in  question  had  indulged  only  in 
such  simple  raillery  as  one  friend  directs  against  an 
other  inept  in  any  game  of  skill,  and  especially  where 
a  107 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

there  were  ladies  among  the  spectators.  This  rail 
lery  was  of  a  character  that  would  have  been  accepted 
as  evidence  of  friendliness  by  any  man  in  the  jury- 
box — it  would  have  called  for  nothing  more  severe 
than  a  retort  in  kind,  or  some  romping  push  with  the 
shoulder,  some  slap  on  the  back,  or  other  rough  play 
fulness.  The  man  now  dead,  the  former  friend  of  the 
prisoner,  had  been  slightly  intoxicated — that  would 
be  shown  by  the  State  and  would  be  admitted  by 
the  defence.  He  was  in  a  condition  in  which  even 
had  his  aggression  not  been  friendly,  even  had  his 
wish  been  to  inflict  bodily  injury  upon  the  prisoner, 
he  could  not  have  been  dangerous  to  the  prisoner 
himself,  who  had  not  been  drinking  on  that  evening, 
who  was,  as  the  jury  might  see,  a  young  man  of 
athletic  build,  and  who  had  been  at  the  time  sur 
rounded  by  several  persons  more  friendly  to  him 
self  than  to  his  victim.  The  prosecution  would  show 
that  the  prisoner  had  been  in  no  peril  whatever, 
that  he  could  not  have  acted  in  self-defence,  that  he 
could  not  have  thought  he  was  so  acting,  that  the 
motive  had  been  hate,  that  the  intent  had  been  mur 
der,  that  the  weapon  had  been  lethal  and  deadly. 

When  the  taking  of  testimony  was  begun  the  bare 
facts  of  the  tragedy  were  simply  outlined.  That  at 
one  time  in  his  annoyance  Denning  had  waved  a 
scarf-pin  in  front  of  the  prisoner  the  prosecution  itself 
established.  The  scarf-pin,  being  a  small  object,  was 
passed  to  the  jury  so  that  each  member  of  that  body 
might  see  it  for  himself.  The  cat's-eye  was  handled 
with  bovine  indifference  by  Hardmuth's  twelve  citi 
zens.  Their  first  impression  of  it  was  potent  in  its 

108 


THE   WITCHING  HOUR 

results,  because  received  before  any  suggestion  of  its 
peculiar  quality,  if  it  possessed  a  peculiar  quality, 
was  made  to  their  healthy  and  ordinary  minds. 

The  paper-cutter,  another  exhibit  for  the  State, 
was  passed  to  the  jury.  This  was  done,  however, 
after  it  had  been  shown  that  the  paper-cutter  had 
lain  upon  the  library  table  in  its  accustomed  place, 
familiar  to  the  prisoner,  to  which,  at  one  stage  in  the 
so-called  quarrel,  he  had  directly  crossed.  It  was 
shown  that  when  the  prisoner  had  taken  the  paper- 
cutter  from  the  table  he  had  taken  it  by  the  lighter 
end  and  not  by  the  handle,  and  had  by  this  very 
selection  turned  it  into  the  powerful  weapon  which 
it  was.  The  twelve  citizens  in  the  jury-box  were  in 
the  main  not  uninformed  in  the  choice  of  weapons, 
and  were  not  unappreciative  of  the  value  of  this  one 
as  they  passed  it  along  their  lines. 

Lew  Ellinger  had  been  impatient  to  reach  the  wit 
ness-stand.  He  had  been  delighted  that  he  was 
among  the  witnesses  summoned  by  the  prosecution; 
he  had  felt  that  half  a  dozen  words  from  him,  given 
with  the  fervor  that  he  would  lend  them,  would  im 
mediately  clear  the  boy  in  the  mind  of  any  unpreju 
diced  listener.  The  State's  attorney,  a  much  younger 
man  than  Ellinger,  treated  him  with  a  curtness — 
one  would  almost  say  with  a  rigor — to  which  Ellinger 
as  a  Southern  gentleman  was  not  accustomed.  The 
judge,  a  much  older  man  than  the  State's  attorney, 
and  one  with  whom  Ellinger  had  frequently  fore 
gathered  in  convivial  association,  sustained  the  con 
duct  of  the  attorney  with  an  inflexibility  difficult  to 
understand  in  a  friend.  It  was  only  when  the  lawyer 

109 


THE  WITCHING   HOUR 

for  the  defence  took  Ellinger  in  hand  for  his  cross- 
examination,  a  process  which  Lew  had  understood 
was  the  epitome  of  impertinence  and  uncharitable- 
ness,  that  Lew  received  anything  like  the  urbanity 
and  gentility  which  had  always  made  him  cultivate 
gentlemanly  associates. 

It  was  during  this  cross-examination  that  Lew 
found  his  opportunity  to  utter  many  of  the  polished 
phrases  which  he  had  rehearsed  during  the  prepara 
tory  months.  Some  of  the  best  and  most  impassioned 
of  these  were  almost  spoiled  by  the  interruption  of  the 
State's  attorney.  However  much  Ellinger  had  ad 
vanced  the  case  of  the  defence,  he  certainly  knew 
when  he  left  the  witness-box  that  no  doubt  existed 
of  his  loyalty  to  the  prisoner. 

As  Lew  minutely  reviewed  his  testimony  during 
that  day  and  the  next,  he  had  sudden  gleams  in  which 
he  distinguished  places  where  it  might  have  been  im 
proved.  He  remembered  several  interruptions  by 
the  State's  attorney  which  might  have  been  crush- 
ingly  rebuked  if  he  had  had  the  composure  to  con 
struct  the  replies  which  now  came  to  him  in  his  calmer 
moments.  But  with  it  all  there  was  only  one  line 
in  his  entire  testimony,  dragged  from  him  by  the 
prosecution  in  its  redirect  examination,  which  he 
regretted.  In  a  moment  of  excitability,  and  perhaps 
personal  vanity,  he  had  said  that  a  cat's-eye  pushed 
into  his  own  face  in  the  manner  in  which  the  cat's-eye 
in  evidence  had  been  pushed  into  Clay's  would  not 
have  excited  him  to  any  frenzy. 

Hardmuth,  another  witness  for  the  State,  with  a 
clarity  most  impressive  to  the  jurymen,  and  with 

no 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

the  authority  of  a  State's  officer,  an  authority  which 
every  touch  in  the  surroundings  tended  to  augment, 
testified  to  the  bare  and  uncolored  facts  of  the  tragedy. 
He  had  seen  the  commencement  of  the  quarrel;  he 
had  seen  the  prisoner  leave  the  room ;  he  had  seen  the 
victim  also  leave  the  room  and  go  into  a  second  room 
in  which  the  prisoner  was  not ;  he  had  seen  the  prisoner 
re-enter  this  second  room  and  rejoin  the  victim;  he 
had  seen  the  difference,  a  quarrel  on  one  side  and  a 
banter  on  the  other,  resumed;  he  had  seen  the  prisoner 
take  the  ivory  tusk  in  evidence  and  repeatedly  strike 
his  victim. 

In  the  cross-examination  of  Hardmuth  the  defence 
elicited  only  the  fact  that  in  the  general  chorus  of 
outcries  which  followed  the  enacting  of  the  tragedy 
the  witness  himself  had  characterized  the  deed  as 
murder,  had  himself  secured  the  weapon,  had  started 
to  notify  the  police,  and  had  been  stopped  in  that 
attempt  by  the  proprietor  of  the  house  in  which  the 
murder  occurred. 

With  this  the  prosecution  rested — the  first  day  of 
the  trial  proper  closed.  There  was  little  popular 
sympathy  with  the  prisoner,  except  such  indirect 
sympathy  as  the  spectacle  of  his  weeping  mother  and 
sweetheart  created.  There  was  little  belief  in  the 
minds  of  the  legal  profession  that  a  successful  defence 
could  be  established,  and  small  doubt  in  the  minds  of 
the  experienced  reporters  of  the  press  that  a  convic 
tion  would  be  secured. 

The  close  of  this  first  day  of  the  trial  was  a  sad  one 
for  the  little  group  composing  the  defence  and  as 
sociated  with  it.  The  boy  himself  was  too  intelligent 

in 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

to  be  deceived  by  the  reassurance  of  his  attorneys, 
but  was  also  too  grateful  for  what  was  being  done 
in  his  behalf  not  to  take  kindly  the  well-meant  efforts 
of  his  attorneys  at  deception.  There  was  sustaining 
companionship  in  the  company  of  his  mother  and  of 
Viola,  but  the  quality  of  comfort  that  supplied  the 
nearest  approach  to  contagious  courage  he  got  from 
the  strong  and  silent  grip  of  Brookfield  and  through 
his  determined  eye. 

It  was  not  in  Helen's  heart  to  leave  her  boy  while 
it  was  possible  to  be  with  him,  and  although  both 
Brookfield  and  the  lawyers  advised  against  it,  she  ac 
companied  him,  with  the  consent  of  his  custodians, 
on  his  walk  from  the  court-room  to  the  jail.  This 
short  journey  took  the  party  out-of-doors  and  through 
the  alleyway  known  as  Congress  Street.  Along  this 
pavement  the  little  procession  made  its  way,  Helen 
walking  at  Clay's  side,  with  Viola  and  Brookfield  just 
behind.  The  curious  were  there  to  note  the  passing 
of  the  prisoner,  but  they  were  remarkably  respectful 
in  the  presence  of  the  ladies,  and  it  was  character 
istic  of  Kentucky  manhood  that  even  the  loungers  in 
front  of  the  hotel  and  the  cafe  removed  their  hats  in 
courteous  silence  as  the  party  passed. 

The  evening  was  spent  at  Brookfield's  rooms  in  a 
general  council  of  the  family,  the  attorneys,  and  the 
experts.  The  testimony  of  the  day  was  reviewed, 
the  plan  of  the  case  for  the  defence  gone  over  for  the 
hundredth  time,  and  a  programme  for  the  coming 
day  arranged. 

It  was  the  opinion  of  Colonel  Bailey,  who  led  the 
defensive  forces,  and  the  opinion  concurred  in  by  his 

112 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

colleagues  and  Brookfield,  that  nothing  was  to  be 
gained  by  wearying  the  court  or  jury  in  combating 
facts  that  the  prosecution  had  established,  with  the 
exception  of  the  single  false  assumption  that  a  hatred 
had  been  built  up  in  Clay's  heart  for  Denning.  Brook- 
field's  own  testimony  would  show,  furthermore,  that 
where  one  man  lost  and  another  gained,  the  gain  and 
loss  were  not  necessarily  reciprocal,  but  that  the  loser 
lost  to  the  house  or  its  proprietor,  and  that  the  winner 
likewise  won  from  the  house  or  its  proprietor.  The 
principal  thing  to  be  established  was  the  existence  of 
Clay's  aversion  to  the  cat's-eye,  his  inability  to  look 
at  the  jewel  and  retain  his  self-control.  The  exist 
ence  of  similar  idiosyncrasies,  of  which  record  was  pre 
served  in  the  medical  books,  was  to  be  told  by  the 
experts.  The  loss  of  self-control  in  one  so  afflicted 
was  also  to  be  established.  This  line  of  defence  fre 
quently  reiterated,  this  programme  several  times 
rehearsed,  induced  a  semblance  of  hope  in  Helen's 
heart  by  the  time  the  conference  adjourned  and  she 
retired  for  the  night.  Long  after  that,  however, 
Colonel  Bailey,  Brookfield,  and  Ellinger  sat  together 
in  the  library,  a  gloomy  trio  filled  with  foreboding  for 
the  morrow's  development. 

On  the  witness-stand  next  day  Helen  told  of  the 
existence  of  the  same  inexplicable  abhorrence  of  the 
jewel  on  her  own  part,  of  one  or  two  illnesses  which, 
when  a  young  woman,  she  had  undergone  as  the  re 
sult  of  looking  at  such  a  jewel,  of  medical  treatment 
for  the  susceptibility,  of  its  partial  cure.  She  told 
also  of  the  inherited  loathing  in  her  boy,  of  her  grief 
at  the  discovery  of  the  same,  of  the  care  with  which 

"3 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

she  had  guarded  him  from  exposure  to  the  influence 
of  the  jewel,  and  of  his  singular  behavior  upon  the 
several  occasions  when  it  had  accidentally  come  to 
his  attention. 

Brookfield  and  the  attorneys  saw  with  a  rising  hope 
the  effect  of  her  story  upon  her  listeners.  Back  of 
all  she  said  was  the  simple  wish  of  a  true  woman  to 
earnestly  tell  the  truth.  There  was  no  attempt  at 
effect,  there  was  not  the  slightest  inharmonious  ex 
pression,  no  touch  of  vehemence — nothing  whatever 
but  a  few  sad  pages  of  family  history  pathetically  and 
reluctantly  revealed. 

Whether  by  his  own  request  or  as  a  result  of  his 
chief's  recognition  of  his  ability  for  the  task,  the  cross- 
examination  of  Helen  was  intrusted  to  Hardmuth. 
The  witness  and  her  friends  all  were  prepared  for  an 
exhibition  of  rudeness  and  of  brutality.  They  were 
disappointed.  With  a  suavity  and  deference  that 
rapidly  won  for  him  the  esteem  of  the  jury,  Hardmuth 
began  his  interrogations. 

"You  were  treated  for  this  susceptibility  of  which 
you  have  spoken,  Mrs.  Whipple,  this  remarkable  and 
inconvenient  susceptibility,  by  a  physician  thoroughly 
familiar  with  its  existence?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"By  your  family  physician,  was  it  not?" 

"My  mother's  family  physician — yes,  sir." 

"Yes,  I  meant  your  mother's  family  physician.  I 
believe  you  said  that  this  physician  had  treated  your 
mother  for  a  similar  susceptibility,  or  idiosyncrasy,  as 
it  has  been  called?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

114 


THE  WITCHING   HOUR 

"You  were  aware  of  the  existence  of  this  dislike  to 
a  cat's-eye  jewel  on  the  part  of  your  mother?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You  have  frequently  heard  her  speak  of  it?" 

"I  have." 

"And  the  physician  that  had  treated  her  also  treat 
ed  you?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Do  you  mind  telling  us  his  name?" 

"No,  sir— Dr.  Lane." 

"Do  you  see  the  gentleman  in  the  court-room?" 

"Dr.  Lane  is  dead." 

"Oh— well,  that's  too  bad.     He  died  recently?" 

"No,  sir — Dr.  Lane  has  been  dead  some  years." 

"Do  you  mind  telling  the  jury,  Mrs.  Whipple,  how 
old  you  were  at  the  time  of  Dr.  Lane's  death — or 
about  how  old?" 

"I  think  I  was  seventeen  years  of  age  when  Dr. 
Lane  died." 

"At  that  time  you  were  completely  cured  of  this 
difficulty?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"You  say  this  same  idiosyncrasy  made  its  appear 
ance  in  your  son?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Sufficiently  to  require  medical  attention?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"What  physician  treated  him?" 

"My  husband  was  a  physician  himself." 

"That  hardly  answers  my  question,  Mrs.  Whipple; 
do  you  mind  telling  the  name  of  the  physician  who 
treated  your  son  for  this  inherited  trouble?" 

»5 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"He  was  treated  by  his  father,  Dr.  Whipple." 

"By  any  other  physician?" 

"Not  that  I  remember." 

"No  specialist  was  called  in?" 

' 4  No,  sir — none  was  needed.  Dr.  Whipple  was  him 
self  one  of  the  most  skilled  physicians  of  Philadelphia." 

' '  I  have  no  doubt  of  that.  Did  your  husband  make 
a  speciality  of  nervous  troubles?" 

"No,  sir — Dr.  Whipple  was  a  general  practitioner." 

"That  is  all,  Mrs.  Whippte." 

Hardmuth  smiled. 

The  defence,  in  its  conference,  had  decided  that  it 
would  be  wise  to  put  Viola  on  the  witness-stand  to 
testify  to  the  degree  of  the  annoyance  which  Denning 
had  inflicted  upon  Clay.  It  was  believed  that  in  ad 
dition  to  the  girl's  testimony  her  great  beauty  would 
strongly  influence  the  sympathies  of  the  jury,  and  this 
was  the  evident  result  of  her  appearance. 

Hardmuth,  in  his  cross-examination  of  Viola,  put 
but  one  interrogation. 

"Your  relation  to  the  prisoner,  Miss  Campbell,  is 
that  of  fiancee,  is  it  not  ? — that  is,  you  are  engaged  to 
marry  this  young  man?" 

"I  am." 

"That's  all." 

The  experience  of  the  battery  of  experts  provided 
by  the  defence  was  not  unlike  the  experience  of  all 
medical  experts  in  stoutly  contested  murder  cases. 
When  an  expert  was  insecure  and  uninformed  he 
became  ridiculous;  when  another  was  master  of  his 
subject  the  attorneys  spread  about  his  testimony  and 
about  the  hypothetical  question  which  induced  it  such 

116 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

a  cuttle-fish  obscurity  that  the  jurymen  were  glad  to 
escape  from  the  troubled  mental  waters  into  the  clear 
er  region  of  shallow  ignorance.  This  part  of  the  case 
for  the  prosecution  was  conducted  by  a  new-comer  in 
the  office  of  the  State's  attorney — a  young  man  of  pro 
found  medico-legal  attainment,  whose  services  it  was 
understood  were  compensated  by  the  money  of  the 
elder  Denning. 

The  expert  medical  testimony  provided  by  the  de 
fence  was  combated  by  testimony  and  contrary  opin 
ion  given  by  specialists  of  equal  importance  who  were 
summoned  by  the  State. 

When  these  gentlemen  were  out  of  the  way,  Brook- 
field  was  recalled  by  the  prosecution.  The  State's  at 
torney,  prompted  by  Hardmuth,  said  to  him : 

"Mr.  Brookfield,  the  young  lady  who  testified  here 
earlier  in  the  trial,  Miss  Campbell,  is  related  to  you  ?" 

"She  is  my  niece." 

"Your  sister's  child?" 

"Yes,  sir — my  sister's  child." 

"Is  the  young  lady's  father  living?" 

"No,  sir." 

"She  is  entirely  in  the  care  of  her  mother?" 

"Not  entirely,  sir;  the  young  lady  is  not  without 
my  protection,  such  as  that  may  be." 

"Are  you  her  guardian,  Mr.  Brookfield?" 

"I  act  as  such." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"I  mean  that  I  never  have  been  legally  appointed 
her  guardian,  but  I  try  to  discharge  the  duties  of  a 
guardian." 

"That  is  what  I  supposed.  You  were  informed 
117 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

concerning  this  engagement  of  your  niece  to  the 
prisoner?" 

"I  was." 

"You  knew,  of  course,  that  he  was  a  patron  of 
your  gambling  establishment?" 

"I  knew  that  he  played  in  my  house — yes." 

"You  considered  him  a  young  man  of  fit  character 
to  marry  your  niece?" 

"I  did." 

"And  this  unfortunate  position  in  which  he  now 
finds  himself  involved — has  that  in  any  way  changed 
your  opinion?" 

"It  has  not." 

In  the  summing  up  Hardmuth  opened  for  the  prose 
cution.  He  began  with  a  misleading  show  of  f air- 
ness  i  he  complimented  the  jury  upon  their  atten 
tion  j  he  sympathized  with  them  in  the  difficulty  of 
the  task  they  were  called  upon  to  perform;  he  em 
phasized  the  gratitude  which  the  community  would 
feel  toward  them  for  the  service  they  were  rendering' 
explained  in  simple  language  the  condition  of  the 
civilization  under  which  they  were  living,  the  neces 
sity  of  law,  the  transcendent  claims  of  the  community 
over  the  individual.  He  then  asked  them  to  demand 
of  the  individual  only  the  ordinary  human  qualities, 
and  to  dismiss  from  their  minds  any  prejudice  they 
had  against  the  prisoner  because  of  the  fact  that  he 
had  frequently  played  for  money  in  a  professional 
gambling-house,  to  lay  upon  himself,  the  speaker, 
any  blame  or  reprehension  they  might  feel  for  such 
conduct,  because  he,  a  much  older  man,  had  frequent 
ly  offended  in  this  manner,  if  to  take  part  in  a 

118 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

game  of  chance  were  a  real  offence  against  public 
morals.  Hardmuth  then  explained  with  almost  kin 
dergarten  simplification  the  conduct  of  a  trial — the 
needlessness  of  dwelling  upon  points  upon  which  there 
was  no  dispute;  the  value  of  directing  the  jury's  en 
tire  attention  to  the  points  that  were  at  issue — that 
is  to  say,  only  those  points  in  the  entire  controversy 
about  which  the  State  and  the  defence  could  not 
agree.  So  far  as  he  himself  was  able  to  see,  and  he 
had  a  trained  observation  of  such  disputes,  the  only 
point  at  issue  was  whether  the  prisoner  had  been  so 
excited  by  the  sight  of  a  cat's-eye  that  he  was  not 
responsible  for  his  acts.  If  such  a  condition  existed 
at  the  time  of  the  killing,  it  meant  an  attack  of 
emotional  insanity ;  if  such  a  susceptibility  still  exist 
ed  in  the  prisoner,  there  was  a  resident  tendency  to 
be  emotionally  insane  whenever  the  same  provoking 
cause  should  again  be  presented.  If  that  were  true, 
it  was  indeed  a  grave  condition ;  if  that  were  true,  it 
was,  and  should  be,  a  matter  of  the  most  profound 
uneasiness  to  his  relatives  and  friends — a  matter  of 
the  gravest  concern  to  the  young  sweetheart  who  had 
so  bravely  testified  in  his  behalf. 

In  his  long  experience  in  the  court  he  had  seldom 
seen  a  more  attractive,  a  gentler,  or  a  more  admirable 
young  lady  than  this  witness.  There  was  not  upon 
the  jury  a  man  so  dull  as  not  to  understand  how  the 
uncle  of  this  young  lady,  even  though  not  her  legally 
constituted  guardian,  should  wish  to  act  in  that 
capacity. 

It  was  easier  to  understand  how  a  mother  should 
do  for  a  son  all  that  this  mother  had  done  in  the  court- 

119 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

room  than  it  would  be  to  understand  her  failure  to 
do  so  much. 

The  sweetheart's  interest  was  equally  natural;  in 
fact,  Hardmuth's  difficulty  concerning  the  young 
lady's  attitude  would  have  been  much  greater  if  he 
had  been  called  upon  to  explain  on  her  part  an  indif 
ference  to  the  boy's  position. 

A  life  was  at  stake.  The  jury  were  to  consider 
that. 

Hardmuth  talked  on  this  part  of  his  theme  with 
almost  the  impressive  fervor  that  would  have  been 
expected  from  the  defence.  He  was  not  going  to 
say  roughly  that  the  mother  had  testified  falsely,  but 
he  was  going  to  submit  that  any  mother  in  that  posi 
tion  could  not  fail  to  say  anything  which  in  her  be 
lief  would  make  for  the  safety  of  her  son. 

The  testimony  of  the  experts,  in  kindness  to  the 
jury,  Hardmuth  was  inclined  to  dismiss.  Nothing 
had  been  said  by  them,  no  testimony  had  been  given 
by  them,  for  which  they  were  not  to  be  amply  com 
pensated;  and  nothing  had  been  said  by  any  one  of 
them  that  had  not  been  diametrically  controverted 
by  gentlemen  equally  eminent,  gentlemen  much  more 
disinterested,  and  in  a  very  much  more  difficult  posi 
tion,  because  it  is  much  easier  to  give  testimony  in 
the  defence  of  a  man  than  it  is  to  give  testimony  in 
the  defence  of  a  community.  The  principal  thing  for 
the  jury  to  consider  was  the  probability  of  this  idio 
syncrasy  existing  in  the  prisoner.  Hardmuth  him 
self  had  no  doubt  that  it  had  existed  to  some  extent 
in  the  mother;  such  ideas,  as  had  been  shown  by  the 
testimony  of  the  experts  both  for  the  defence  and 

I2O 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

for  the  prosecution,  were  frequently  concomitants  of 
hysteria;  but  as  some  of  the  doctors  had  testified, 
and  as  all  of  the  twelve  intelligent  men  themselves 
knew,  hysteria  was  peculiarly  a  feminine  luxury. 
Hysterical  men  were  unusual.  In  the  case  of  the 
mother,  the  idiosyncrasy  in  question  had  disappeared 
as  soon  as  the  doctor  who  had  discovered  it  in  the 
grandmother  had  himself  ceased  to  live.  Its  sup 
posed  reappearance  in  the  boy  was  perhaps  a  piece 
of  childish  imitation  built  up  from  fireside  gossip 
of  the  family.  The  boy's  susceptibility  had  never 
been  considered  as  sufficiently  serious,  even  by  the 
father  of  the  boy,  to  summon  the  assistance  of  a 
specialist;  and  as  the  jury  had  heard  several  of  the 
eminent  specialists  on  both  sides  of  the  case  testify, 
it  was  unusual,  if  not  almost  unheard  of,  for  a  physi 
cian  to  treat  a  member  of  his  own  family  in  a  serious 
ailment. 

Recurring  to  the  testimony  of  Viola,  he  took  up 
the  possible  effect  of  the  young  lady's  appearance 
upon  the  jury.  The  jury  were  men — they  were  ex 
traordinary  men,  if  he  might  be  permitted  to  say  so — 
extraordinary  men  even  in  that  community  of  ex 
traordinary  manhood.  It  might  have  escaped  the 
attention  of  even  the  gentlemen  themselves,  but  he 
now  asked  them  to  note  that  they  made  a  body 
which  would  be  a  valuable  addition  to  any  military 
company  or  to  any  athletic  association.  Whatever 
accompanying  intelligence  this  physical  development 
carried  with  it,  it  surely  carried  with  it  a  certain  senti 
mental  susceptibility.  As  men,  now  that  he  had 
called  their  attention  to  this  fact,  he  asked  them  to 

121 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

put  their  judgment  in  charge  over  their  emotions,  and 
in  their  duty  to  the  State  to  rise  superior  to  such 
influences. 

The  young  and  beautiful  witness  of  whom  he  was 
speaking  was  in  her  way  quite  as  unusual  a  physical 
specimen  as  any  member  of  the  jury ;  she  was,  also, 
very  intelligent.  She  was  old  enough  to  know  what 
a  blight  the  alleged  inherited  tendency  in  the  prisoner 
would  be  in  a  husband,  yet,  fully  informed  as  she  was, 
that  blight  became  no  bar  to  their  intended  marriage. 
One  might  attribute  that  to  a  quixotic  willingness  for 
self-sacrifice  on  the  part  of  an  infatuated  girl;  but 
what  of  the  uncle,  her  guardian  ?  Mr.  Brookfield  was 
not  an  emotional  party;  on  the  contrary,  he  was  a 
man  of  wonderful  self-possession,  a  man  of  wide  ex 
perience,  a  man  skilled  in  estimating  men;  he  was, 
moreover,  Kentuckian  enough  to  understand  the 
value  of  hereditary  qualities,  the  value  of  sound  pro 
genitors  and  their  relation  to  possible  progeny.  How 
had  this  alleged  mental  taint  affected  him  or  his  de 
cision  to  give  his  niece  to  the  prisoner  in  marriage? 
Not  at  all.  Even  this  killing,  for  which  the  prisoner 
stood  on  trial  as  the  alleged  consequence  of  this  men 
tal  trait,  had  in  no  wise  altered  his  decision  to  permit 
his  lovely  niece  to  become  the  wife  of  this  defective 
person! 

The  jury  must  be  forced  to  the  conclusion  at  which 
the  speaker  had  himself  arrived :  the  friends  and  ac 
quaintances  of  the  prisoner  regarded  his  mental  af 
fliction,  if  a  mental  affliction  really  existed,  as  too 
slight  to  interfere  with  any  of  his  plans  in  life,  and 
as  of  only  sufficient  importance  to  serve  as  an  excuse 

122 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

in  the  evasion  of  the  law.  That  it  was  a  trivial  and 
insufficient  excuse  he  had  no  doubt  the  serious  men 
to  whom  he  addressed  himself  would  at  once  perceive. 

But  assume  that  the  speaker  was  mistaken ;  assume 
that  this  terrible  blight,  fraught  with  such  heart-rend 
ing  consequences,  really  was  there;  assume  that  it  was 
ineradicable,  that  it  had  existed  in  a  grandmother, 
had  been  transmitted  to  her  daughter,  had  now,  in 
turn,  been  transmitted  to  a  son,  when  was  this  fatal 
heritage  to  cease  ?  If  the  jury  found  the  young  man 
not  guilty  of  the  crime  of  which  he  had  been  charged, 
if  in  their  wisdom  they  were  to  set  him  at  liberty, 
did  any  of  them  doubt  that  the  marriage  planned 
between  the  prisoner  and  this  emotional  girl  would 
take  place?  Would  a  verdict  of  insanity  be  truly 
merciful?  Would  it  be  an  act  of  kindness  to  the 
young  man  himself?  Would  it  be  a  chivalrous  gen 
erosity  to  the  young  woman  to  make  it  possible  for 
these  two  to  be  joined  in  wedlock  ?  Would  it  not  only 
be  sowing  the  wind  that  they  might  reap  the  whirl 
wind? 

That,  however,  was  its  very  narrowest  considera 
tion,  the  consideration  of  these  two.  What  of  the 
wider  consideration,  the  protection  of  the  community, 
that  duty  for  which  this  jury  had  been  assembled, 
that  first  and  most  important  duty  which  they  had 
sworn  to  discharge?  For  his  own  part,  Hardmuth 
failed  to  see  that  the  jury  in  their  choice  were  not 
between  the  horns  of  a  dilemma  —  either  this  dis 
position  to  emotional  insanity  did  not  exist,  in  which 
case  it  was  not  a  valid  plea  in  his  defence,  or  it  did 
exist,  in  which  case  it  was  all  the  greater  reason  to 

9  123 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

protect  the  community  against  the  prisoner  and  his 
kind. 

With  this  presentation  of  his  case,  Hardmuth  closed. 

There  was  a  murmur  in  the  court-room  ominously 
like  approval.  There  was  a  stir  in  the  jury-box,  and 
a  disposition  on  the  part  of  the  jurymen  to  look  at 
the  judge  or  at  the  attorneys  for  the  State  rather 
than  into  the  faces  of  the  little  group  that  represented 
the  defence. 

Colonel  Bailey,  for  the  prisoner,  made  an  able  ad 
hominem  appeal.  He  made  an  able  review  of  the 
expert  testimony.  He  made  a  strong  plea  for  the 
reasonable  doubt  that  any  juryman  might  entertain, 
but  there  was  in  the  court-room  a  subtle  atmosphere 
impressing  all  that  the  task  of  the  defence  was  uphill 
work. 

More  formidable  than  any  testimony,  more  baneful 
than  any  evidence  for  the  prosecution,  was  the  stolid, 
animal,  earthy  quality  of  the  jury  which  Hardmuth 
had  so  shrewdly  secured  and  counted  on.  The  only 
noticeable  effect  upon  them  had  been  produced  by 
Viola's  appearance,  and  Hardmuth,  with  his  knowl 
edge  of  human  nature,  partly  instinctive,  largely 
acquired,  had  skilfully  offset  that  effect  by  dwell 
ing  upon  the  impending  marriage  of  Viola  and  the 
prisoner. 

Deep  in  the  composition  of  every  normal  healthy 
man  there  is  a  survival  of  the  primitive  animal,  a 
survival  of  the  instinct  that  formerly  made  the  male 
of  every  species  belligerent  at  the  sight  of  any  female 
of  that  species  taken  by  another  male.  It  is  a  sub- 
structural  if  a  melancholy  fact  that  few  bridegrooms 

124 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

in  public  weddings  have  the  sincere  and  unrestrained 
well-wishes  and  admiration  of  the  male  members  of 
the  congregation.  It  is  a  fact  known  to  most  attor 
neys  skilled  in  the  practise  of  the  criminal  law  that 
no  jury  of  men,  however  brutal  themselves  or  in 
clined  to  like  offences,  can  be  found  to  sympathize 
with  a  prisoner  charged  with  the  forcible  appropria 
tion  of  a  woman.  This  is  not  due  to  the  jury's  in 
dividual  or  collective  stock  of  virtue  so  much  as  to 
the  survival  of  a  fine  and  primitive  animal  egoism. 

Upon  this  instinct  Hardmuth  had  relied;  its  deep 
current  he  had  skilfully  touched  and  stirred.  A  ma 
jority  of  the  jury  were  unreasonably,  immovably  an 
tagonistic  to  the  prisoner. 

The  closing  speech  for  the  prosecution  was  short. 
The  jury  retired.  Word  came  from  their  room  that 
there  was  little  prospect  of  an  agreement  at  ten 
o'clock  that  night,  and  the  Court,  which  had  taken  a 
recess,  adjourned  until  the  following  morning,  leav 
ing  the  members  of  the  Brookfield  household  to  a 
night  of  harrowing  suspense. 

The  verdict  in  the  morning  was  "Guilty."  The 
wise  attorneys  in  charge  of  the  prisoner's  case  believed 
that  they  had  saved  sufficient  exception*  to  the 
ruling  of  the  Court — that  the  Court  had  made  errors 
enough  to  give  them  an  appeal. 


'"PHE  trial  of  Whipple,  and  especially  the  testi- 
1  mony  of  an  assistant  prosecuting  attorney,  es 
tablished  beyond  further  contention  the  frequently 
reiterated  charge  made  by  the  reform  newspaper  that 
gambling  was  openly  conducted  in  the  city  of  Louis 
ville.  It  established  also  the  negligence  of  the  police 
in  this  connection,  and  more  especially  the  negligence 
of  the  district  attorney's  office  if  not,  as  the  press  was 
more  than  hinting,  the  collusion  of  that  office  in  this 
nefarious  condition  of  things.  Hardmuth's  explana 
tion  of  his  own  participation  was  that,  as  an  officer  of 
the  law,  he  was  gathering  evidence.  The  support  of 
this  assumption  necessitated  a  fairly  rigorous  cam 
paign  against  the  gambling-houses. 

Brookfield's  was  already  dark;  the  frank  para 
phernalia  of  the  establishment  had  been  sold  or  dis 
posed  of.  Once  or  twice  a  week,  at  irregular  intervals 
and  unfixed  times,  there  was  what  Brookfield  called 
a  gentleman's  game,  when  a  few  of  the  older  patrons 
and  his  intimate  friends  sat  down  to  a  game  of  poker, 
as  they  might  have  done  at  some  of  their  clubs. 
Gambling  proper,  however,  with  its  full  excitement 
and  allure,  was  for  the  time  diplomatically  inter 
rupted  in  all  of  Louisville's  professional  establish 
ments. 

126 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

This  condition  of  affairs  was  a  severe  deprivation 
for  Ellinger.  Lew's  interests  in  life  were  few,  but  were 
inversely  intense.  These  interests  included  the  race 
track  ;  the  prize-ring ;  the  theatre  on  its  vaudeville  side 
and  in  its  reminiscent  aspect ;  the  fluctuation  of  the 
stock-market  in  so  far  as  that  fluctuation  affected  the 
quotation  of  a  single  railroad  stock ;  the  American  As 
sociation  of  Professional  Baseball  Clubs;  the  show- 
window  display  of  certain  importing  tailors;  the 
afternoon  parade  on  Fourth  Street,  particularly  on 
Saturday  after  the  matin6e ;  the  opening  of  the  hunt 
ing  season,  not  because  of  Lew's  participation  therein, 
but  because  of  the  superiority  of  the  flavor  of  fresh 
game  over  that  of  the  cold-storage  supply;  the  con 
servation  of  one  or  two  dwindling  supplies  of  a  cer 
tain  vintage  of  bourbon;  his  diurnal  pink  for  the 
button -hole  and  somebody's  eau  de  quinine  for  the 
hair;  but  first,  last,  and  continuously  his  greatest  in 
terest  was  the  professional  game  of  hazard  known  as 
faro.  To  take  this  from  him  was  to  make  of  Lew, 
in  his  own  language,  "a  widow  and  an  orphan." 

With  faro  eliminated  Lew's  mind  had  more  time  at 
its  disposal  than  its  degree  of  activity  demanded. 
The  world  grew  gray,  the  universe  seemed  a  com 
plicated  machine  for  the  production  of  sorrow. 

Lew's  associates  and  nearest  acquaintances  were 
men  who,  like  himself,  felt  particularly  aggrieved  by 
the  drastic  action  of  the  authorities ;  men  who,  like  him 
self,  were  more  than  indignant  at  Hardmuth's  deser 
tion  and  his  betrayal  of  their  interests ;  men  naturally 
watchful  for  additional  grounds  of  criticism  of  their 
common  enemy.  Hardmuth's  conduct  of  the  Whipple 

127 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

trial  took  its  place  in  their  bill  of  grievances.  Lew's 
own  resentment  of  this  part  of  Hardmuth's  record 
made  him  doubly  sympathetic  toward  the  members 
of  Brookfield's  home.  Nor  was  his  sympathy  unac 
ceptable  to  Helen,  in  whose  greater  trouble  any  dis 
position  to  criticise  Lew's  past  social  record  or  present 
standing  disappeared. 

Lew  was  a  welcome  visitor.  As  a  frequent  escort 
to  both  Helen  and  Viola,  he  began  in  a  measure  to 
fill  the  void  which  in  that  department  of  usefulness 
had  been  created  by  Clay's  enforced  absence. 

In  times  of  deep  and  persistent  sorrow  there  are 
few  companions  more  acceptable  than  a  loyal,  unde 
manding,  mature,  mediocre  friend — one  whose  vanity 
is  not  offended  by  long  silences,  whose  watchful 
ness  prompts  to  small  and  unimportant  services, 
whose  confidence  is  unquestioning,  and  whose  punc 
tuality  and  dependability  banish  friction  from  the 
small  affairs  of  daily  existence.  Lew  regarded  the 
position  in  which  the  ladies  found  themselves  as  in 
directly  attributable  to  the  business  of  a  fraternity 
of  which  he  was  an  open  and  avowed  associate.  His 
present  loyalty,  among  its  other  qualities,  was  there 
fore  fraternal. 

Such  entertainment  as  Lew  was  competent  to  sug 
gest  was  exactly  of  that  variety  most  salutary  in  its 
character  for  Helen  and  Viola.  It  uniformly  de 
manded  some  physical  exertion,  an  interest  in  ma 
terial  things,  an  attention  to  the  outside  world  as 
opposed  to  speculation  and  introspection.  It  was  to 
ride  in  the  automobile,  to  visit  this  or  the  other  farm 
of  thoroughbreds,  or  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  the 

128 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

excellence  of  some  road-house  cuisine.  On  such  ex 
cursions  Lew  systematically  devoted  himself  to  Viola 
or  Mrs.  Campbell,  or  both,  and  thus  left  Helen  the 
fairly  uninterrupted  society  of  Jack. 

During  all  this  long  and  trying  period  Brookfield 
astonished  Helen  by  the  considerate  delicacy  of  his 
attitude  and  bearing.  Her  thoughts  were  diverted 
from  rather  than  invited  to  any  mutual  sentimental 
relation.  Brookfield,  while  something  more  than  a 
friend,  was  studiously  less  than  suitor.  He  seemed 
instinctively  to  divine  that  in  this  period  of  Clay's 
peril  Helen  would  not  only  regret  any  thought  she 
might  be  induced  to  bestow  on  her  own  future  hap 
piness,  but  would  remember  unfavorably  any  attempt 
on  the  part  of  another  to  so  direct  her  attention. 

If  Jack  were  careful  of  her  physical  or  mental  health 
it  was  that  she  might  have  strength  to  devote  to  her 
boy.  The  many  thoughtful  acts  that  were  done  in 
her  behalf  were  apparently  prompted  by  Mrs.  Camp 
bell;  the  numerous  expenditures  made  necessary  by 
her  presence  and  for  her  comfort,  entertainment,  and 
diversion  seemed  always  incurred  by  Mrs.  Campbell. 
That  hitherto  unreliable  and  flighty  lady  was  sud 
denly  endowed  with  masculine  prevision,  generosity, 
and  executive  ability. 

This  indirect  service  could  not  fail  of  appreciation 
by  a  woman  of  Helen's  delicate  fibre  rendered  acutely 
sensitive  by  the  recent  cumulative  tragic  events. 
The  more  unkind  the  world  seemed,  the  more  generous 
Jack  appeared;  the  closer  and  more  inexorable  the 
menace  of  the  law,  the  more  wonderful  the  interpos 
ing  courage  of  Jack's  defence;  the  more  vulnerable 

129 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

she  and  hers  became,  the  more  priceless  his  pro 
tection. 

We  grow  in  character  through  service.  Brookfield 
himself  was  happily  conscious  of  a  spiritual  growth. 
With  every  unselfish  effort  he  felt  an  accession  not 
only  of  compensating  but  of  compounded  power.  He 
felt,  too,  an  increasing  calm.  Something  of  this  calm 
he  had  always  possessed  and  to  an  enviable  degree, 
but  heretofore  it  had  been  the  sufficing  calm  of  poise 
and  self-control. 

This  increased  calm,  whether  because  it  was  of 
another  origin  or  whether  reserve  and  surplus  of  power 
always  so  act,  he  found  to  his  surprise  had  a  com 
pelling  quality.  Men  of  contrary  minds  seemed  to 
fall  easily  into  the  line  of  his  wishes,  not  through  any 
expression  or  any  argumentative  presentation  of  his 
desire,  but  by  its  silent  and  serene  tenure. 

In  his  mental  search  for  the  source  of  the  power 
residing  in  himself,  Brookfield  came  again  upon  his 
larger  conception  of  the  interrelation  of  life,  his  re 
cently  acquired  and  developed  philosophy  plainly 
religious  in  its  character.  When  he  held  in  associa 
tion  the  fact  of  his  newly  accepted  belief  in  the  one 
ness  of  life,  and  the  truth  by  him  more  recently  noted, 
that  any  expenditure  of  force  in  the  unselfish  service 
of  others  was  apparently  repaid,  and  in  larger  quan 
tity,  his  active  imagination  began  reaching  for  some 
explanation  of  this  apparent  repayment,  some  work 
ing  hypothesis  that  his  reason  might  approve. 

Why  did  an  effort,  physical  or  mental,  made  with  a 
purely  selfish  end  in  view  tire  him  more  than  a  similar 
effort  spontaneously  prompted  by  his  desire  to  help 

130 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

another?  Why  did  the  increase  of  skill  or  facility 
acquired  in  such  selfish  occupation  seem  measurably 
less  than  the  skill  or  facility  acquired  in  his  disin 
terested  efforts? 

If  this  relation  between  the  character  of  his  efforts 
and  the  reflex  action  of  those  efforts  upon  himself 
really  existed,  Brookfield  felt  that  a  natural  law  uni 
versal  in  its  operation  must  govern  that  relation.  He 
felt  that  his  experience  could  not  be  unique,  that 
all  who  were  working  unselfishly  for  others,  working 
without  personal  vanity  or  the  hope  of  personal  re 
ward,  working  with  love  as  a  sole  motive,  must  have, 
like  him,  an  accession  thereby  of  spiritual  strength 
and  ability. 

There  were  men  and  women  in  Louisville,  as  there 
were  in  every  community,  whose  lives  were  vital,  with 
altruistic  purpose.  Certain  of  these  were  known  to 
Brookfield  by  repute,  observation,  or  contact,  and  as 
his  thought  now  singled  them  out  he  saw  that  each 
was  animate  with  an  uncommon  strength.  Looking 
nearer  home,  he  realized  that  Helen  in  her  devoted 
service  to  Clay  had  shown  an  activity  and  an  en 
durance  of  which  no  previous  chapter  in  her  life  gave 
hint;  and  that  expenditure  of  force,  instead  of  lead 
ing  to  an  expected  collapse,  resulted  in  an  astonish 
ing  reinforcement.  Viola  also,  under  the  same  stim 
ulus,  was  exhibiting  equally  unsuspected  power,  a  like 
endurance  and  a  similar  increase  of  strength  where 
depletion  had  been  looked  for. 

What  was  the  secret  of  this  energy?  From  what 
region  did  it  come  ?  There  seemed  no  merely  physio 
logical  explanation  of  it;  in  his  own  case  Brookfield 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

was  sure  that  no  material  explanation  would  suffice. 
It  would  not  do  to  submit  an  analogy  between  the 
training  of  a  muscle  of  his  arm,  for  example,  and  the 
training  of  some  mental  faculty  the  growth  of  which 
might  account  for  the  added  power  of  which  he  was 
progressively  aware.  The  force  within  himself  was 
deeper  than  intellection — at  least,  was  quite  indepen 
dent  of  all  conscious  mental  action ;  and  when  he  had 
unreservedly  lent  himself  to  its  expression  it  seemed 
to  flow  through  him  as  through  an  outlet  suddenly 
discovered  and  as  from  a  reservoir  of  inexhaustible 
storage. 

This  figure,  once  suggested  to  the  powerfully  graphic 
mind  of  Brookfield,  quickly  shaped  itself  into  a  picture 
illustrative  of  the  hypothesis  he  sought : 

Back  of  the  visible  universe  as  it  presented  itself  to 
his  mind  Brookfield  saw  an  infinite,  intelligent  force 
pressing  for  expression.  He  saw  men  and  women  as 
so  many  avenues  through  which  the  force  might  flow. 
He  saw  it  flowing  freely  and  more  freely  through 
those  who  submitted  themselves  to  its  action.  Where 
avarice  would  retain  the  flow  to  selfish  ends  he  saw 
the  force  arrested  and  the  man,  no  longer  normal  to  its 
current,  clogged  and  stifled  with  the  sediment  of  ac 
cumulation,  the  force  itself  withdrawn  to  other  chan 
nels.  Where  craft  and  ambition  would  misdirect  and 
apply  the  force,  he  saw  it  measurably  lessened,  the 
agent  distorted  and  misshapen. 

Brookfield  smiled  at  the  simplicity  of  the  picture  he 
had  conjured,  the  childishness  of  it.  He  remembered 
that  every  inspirational  fanatic  who  had  become  a 
public  nuisance,  if  not  a  menace,  had  considered  him- 

132 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

self  a  passive  medium  to  the  will  of  a  force  divine  and 
infinite.  Better  remain  a  practical  gambler,  sordidly 
but  sanely  dickering  for  immunity  with  corrupt  of 
ficials,  than  reform  in  a  hospitality  to  such  vagaries  as 
this. 

Brookfield  as  he  sat  there  meditating  in  his  library 
laughed  aloud.  He  was  the  only  auditor  of  his  laugh, 
and  as  auditor  he  was  not  fully  pleased.  The  laugh 
had  a  discomforting  artificiality — it  was  not  his  own. 
Brookfield  felt  that  there  was  another  presence  in  the 
room  .  .  . 

He  looked  quickly  about. 

He  walked  to  the  doorway  and  turned  the  electric 
switch,  thereby  doubling  the  light  in  the  hall — a  glance 
up  and  down  the  respective  stairways  and  then  he 
came  back,  turning  off  the  added  light  as  he  did  so. 
The  library  was  unpleasantly  shadowy.  The  sense 
of  another  presence  persisted.  .  .  .  Over  his  shoulders 
and  through  his  scalp  there  crept  that  tingle  he  had 
felt  at  Macauley's,  when  Justice  Prentice  had  first 
looked  at  him,  and  again  on  the  occasion  of  Prentice's 
visit  to  this  room.  Brookfield  reached  to  the  wall  and 
turned  the  nearest  switch.  The  hood  of  lamps  over 
the  Corot  threw  their  light  on  the  canvas  and  its  re 
flection  dispelled  the  shadows  from  the  corner  of  the 
room.  .  .  .  There  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  the 
familiar  objects — the  paintings  on  their  background 
of  garnet  velvet,  the  rows  of  books,  the  inert  face  of 
the  dead  emperor,  the  Dante,  the  lidless  eyes  of  the 
Sphinx  in  its  patient  vigil. 

He  crossed  to  the  dining-room,  passing  over  that 
end  of  the  rug  from  which  Denning's  body  had  been 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

lifted  just  after  Clay  had  killed  him.  The  memory 
added  nothing  to  his  agitation — on  the  contrary,  it 
rather  steadied  him,  being  part  of  the  tangible  problem 
in  which  he  was  involved. 

Brookfield  turned  on  the  light  in  the  dining-room. 
No  one  was  there.  From  the  sideboard  a  thousand 
facets  danced  their  elaborate  tribute  to  good  cheer. 
One  stately  decanter  gleamed  orange  and  amber  in 
its  lower  half.  It  invoked  a  thought  of  Ellinger — 
how  that  old  comrade  would  laugh  at  Jack's  present 
fantasy  if  he  could  know  of  it!  He  poured  out  a 
drink.  The  very  character  of  the  action,  ordinary 
and  commonplace,  put  his  feet  again  on  solid  ground. 
He  looked  at  the  whiskey — to  swallow  it  meant  fear 
— it  meant  even  more.  As  Brookfield  considered  his 
condition  and  the  impulse  to  drink  he  felt  that  any 
voluntary  benumbing  of  the  sensitiveness  he  had  de 
veloped  would  be  retreat — would  be  a  kind  of  dis 
loyalty.  He  put  the  untasted  liquor  batik  upon  the 
sideboard  and  returned  to  the  library,  repeating  pos 
itively  but  somewhat  mechanically  the  word  "dis 
loyalty."  The  uncanny  illusion  of  the  old  Justice's 
presence  was  gone.  Brookfield  was  alone  in  his  room 
with  its  fondly  familiar  furniture  and  fittings,  and 
in  his  mind  nothing  but  the  reiterant  word  —  "dis 
loyalty." 

"Disloyalty?  .  .  .  Whose?" 

"Your  own!" 

" Disloyalty  to  what?" 

"To  your  ideal!" 

The  tendency  of  things  to  swim  went  by;  Brook- 
field  was  himself  again  the  centre  of  a  calm. 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"That  was  an  attack  of  nerves,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"worthy  of  an  inmate  of  the  Old  Ladies'  Home! 
What  time  is  it,  I  wonder?"  His  watch  showed  twen 
ty-nine  minutes  after  midnight.  "  I'll  see  Monroe  in 
the  morning  and  get  him  to  give  me  a  sedative." 

But  he  knew  in  his  heart  that  he  lied. 

Two  days  after  the  night  on  which  Brookfield  had 
experienced  what  he  called  "an  attack  of  nerves" 
he  received  a  letter  which  read  as  follows: 

"  MY  DEAR  MR.  BROOKFIELD, — I  am  sending  you  a  second 
book  upon  telepathy  and  kindred  subjects.  This  is  the  book 
which,  on  the  occasion  of  my  visit  to  your  home,  I  promised 
to  send  to  you.  It  has  a  very  instructive  consideration  of 
the  phenomena  of  hypnotism  and  some  speculation  upon 
the  ethical  question  unavoidably  associated  with  the  use  of 
that  force.  The  first  book  that  I  sent  you  upon  the  subject 
of  ^psychic  phenomena  I  regarded  as  an  essential  preparation 
for  the  one  I  am  sending  to-night.  I  had  not  meant,  how 
ever,  to  impose  between  the  two  books  a  probationary  inter 
val  of  such  uncomplimentary  length,  but  the  rude  fact  is 
that  I  forgot  the  second  one  until  to-day.  My  contrition 
will  at  once  appear  when  I  tell  you  that  the  hour  is  one-quar 
ter  past  midnight,  and  that  I  pen  this  letter  before  permit 
ting  myself  to  retire.  With  sincere  wishes  for  your  personal 
usefulness  and  peace,  believe  me, 

"Your  obedient  servant, 

"JEFFERSON  M.  PRENTICE." 

Brookfield  looked  at  the  date  and  wondered.  The 
letter  had  been  written  in  Washington  on  the  self 
same  night  that  he,  sitting  in  his  library  here  in  Louis 
ville,  had  been  so  strongly  impressed  by  a  sense  of  the 
writer's  presence,  and — assuming  that  the  writer  had 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

quoted  standard  time,  to  which  Brookfield's  watch 
was  set — the  hours  had  been  identical ! 

What  wizard's  power  was  this'  Brookfield  en 
deavored  to  recall  the  only  conversation  he  and 
Justice  Prentice  had  held.  He  remembered  his  ques 
tion,  "Do  you  mean  that  you  know  what  I  think?" 
and  the  Justice's  reply:  "I  don't  claim  any  monopoly 
of  that  power.  It's  my  opinion  that  every  one  reads 
the  thoughts  of  others — that  is,  some  of  the  thoughts." 
Had  he,  two  nights  before,  been  reading  the  Justice's 
thought?  Or  was  it  only  coincidence  that  while  his 
own  mind  had  recalled  a  vivid  recollection  of  the  Jus 
tice,  that  gentleman  had  independently  chosen  to  in 
dite  him  a  letter  ?  Helen  had  said  that  in  his  college 
days  he  had  been  able  to  make  her  get  up  from  her 
bed  and  write  to  him.  .  .  . 

Did  he  possess  such  a  power  unconsciously? 

Prentice  had  said  to  him,  "You  have  a  strong 
psychic,  a  strong  hypnotic  ability."  It  was  conse 
quent  to  that  statement  that  the  Justice  had  sent  him 
the  second  book  of  "  instruction  and  caution." 

Brookfield  read  the  book  in  the  concentrated  in 
tensity  of  a  blow-flame — read  and  reread  it.  Its 
author  differed  with  all  those  of  his  contemporaries 
who  held  that  there  was  nothing  in  hypnotism  but 
suggestion,  and  quoted  in  his  support  the  agreement 
of  those  authors  themselves  that  between  the  hypno 
tist  and  his  subject  there  existed  for  an  indefinite  time 
after  the  hypnosis  a  strong  rapport.  What  was  this 
unison  of  vibration  between  the  two  but  an  invasion 
of  the  subconscious  field  of  the  subject  and  a  perma 
nent  seizure  of  part  of  that  territory?  Was  there 

136 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

anything  but  an  assumption,  was  there  sufficient 
evidence  to  show  that  this  rapport  which  seemed  to 
persist  through  life  ceased  with  the  death  of  either? 

It  was  under  the  discussion  of  this  inquiry  that  the 
author  introduced  the  ethical  considerations  to  wrhich 
Justice  Prentice  had  called  his  attention.  This  pres 
entation  made  an  indelible  impression  upon  Brookfield, 
not  so  much  because  of  the  dire  consequences  which 
it  outlined  as  by  the  author's  explanation  of  a  vi 
bratory  agreement  between  two  minds — the  dynamic 
agitation  of  the  communicating  ether  by  one  mind 
and  its  registration  by  the  other  mind.  The  figure 
fitted  in  and  confirmed  all  that  Brookfield  had  already 
worked  out  for  himself. 

Brookfield's  family  physician,  Dr.  Monroe,  was  a 
fad  homceopathist — that  is  to  say,  Monroe  was  a 
"high -potency"  man.  The  high -potency  man  ob 
tains  the  ordinary  homoeopathic  dose,  already  in- 
finitesmal,  and  dilutes  it  maybe  ten  thousand  times. 
There  is  no  instrument  in  the  universe  except  the 
human  subconscious  mind  delicate  enough  to  detect 
the  presence  of  a  drug  in  a  high-potency  pellet — no 
reagent  known  to  chemistry  will  answer  to  its  action. 
A  high-potency  homoeopathist  is  a  skilled  diagnosti 
cian  practising  suggestive  therapeutics  in  a  blindfold. 
Now  and  then  one  of  them  lays  aside  the  blindfold 
and  joyously,  but  secretly,  with  blank  powder,  adopts 
in  functional  disorders  the  art  of  mental  medicine. 
Monroe  had  not  laid  aside  the  blindfold,  but  he  was 
peeping. 

A  wise  physician  who  would  not  dare  to  confess  to 
his  pastor  that  he  indulged  in  beneficent  deceit  at 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

three  dollars  a  deception  could  find  encouraging 
sympathy  in  the  heart  of  the  intelligent  owner  of 
a  roulette  -  wheel.  Monroe  had  so  confided,  and  at 
length,  to  Brookfield;  and  in  Brookfield's  present 
psychological  study  of  Clay's  case  Dr.  Monroe  had 
been  his  guide. 

Together  Brookfield  and  the  doctor  dissected  the 
new  book.  The  doctor  had  certain  patients  in  whom 
he  was  sure  he  had  occasionally  induced  a  slight 
hypnosis.  The  features  of  their  cases  were  discussed, 
the  method  of  their  cures.  The  doctor  agreed  with 
the  reported  opinion  of  the  Justice  that  Brookfield 
was  possessed  of  considerable  magnetic  power. 

One  night  the  two  men  had  sat  fairly  late  in  Brook- 
field's  library  browsing  rather  than  surveying  the 
fascinating  field  they  had  partially  explored  in  com 
pany  when  the  young  darky,  Jo,  intruded  to  solicit 
the  doctor's  ministrations.  Jo  was  "low  in  his  mind"  j 
it  transpired  also  "his  food  didn't  seem  to  strengthen 
him  none."  Yet  pulse,  respiration,  and  temperature 
were  normal;  Jo's  tongue  was  as  clean  as  a  sliced 
tomato.  More  careful  inquiry  developed  the  fact 
that  a  recent  addition  to  Jo's  circle  of  acquaintance 
was  a  young  colored  man  from  Louisiana,  a  person  of 
aggressive  amativeness  and  notably  of  winsome  qual 
ities  with  the  opposite  sex.  Even  Jo's  own  girl  was 
taking  fluttering  notice  of  the  new  arrival.  Some 
said  that  the  young  man  was  a  doctor's  son  himself 
and  could  cast  a  spell.  He  and  Jo  had  come  to  words 
over  the  girl.  Jo  couldn't  recall  the  exact  threat  in 
dulged  in,  but  it  had  been  to  the  effect  that  Jo  had 
' '  better  look  out. ' '  Jo  dated  the  most  alarming  of  his 

138 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

symptoms  from  that  evening.  The  doctor  and  Brook- 
field  looked  at  each  other  seriously. 

"If  this  is  a  spell,  Mr.  Brookfield,"  said  the  doctor, 
"and  I  see  no  other  explanation  of  it,  I  think  it  is  a 
case  where  your  faculties  are  more  clearly  needed 
than  mine.  You  are  a  man  constantly  favored  by 
fortune,  the  powers  are  with  you,  and  I  think  you 
could  do  something  for  Jo." 

"What  do  you  think,  Jo?"  Brookfield  asked  the 
boy. 

"Well,  Marse  Jack,  if  I  am  hoodooed,  I'd  bet  your 
luck  agin  any  nigger  if  you'd  holp  me." 

Jack  patted  the  boy  comfortingly  on  his  resilient 
kinks,  patted  him  with  that  strong  hand  which  subtly 
emitted  reassurance  to  dog  or  horse  or  man.  In  ac 
cordance  with  his  reading  and  his  previous  casual  in 
struction  from  the  doctor,  Jack  seated  the  boy  in  an 
easy-chair,  his  head  at  rest,  his  hands  lying  comfort 
ably  in  his  lap.  Jo's  attention  was  directed  in  turn 
to  each  part  of  his  body,  and  complete  relaxation 
induced.  Brookfield  then  stroked  him  gently  over 
the  eyes,  and  brought  his  own  hands  down  over 
shoulders,  arms,  and  limbs,  though  not  in  actual  con 
tact.  An  easy  smile  flitted  at  the  corners  of  Jo's 
ample  mouth;  a  gentle  pricking  came  into  feet  and 
fingers.  He  heard  Brookfield,  far  away,  say  in  a  tone 
like  the  bass  note  on  the  chapel  melodeon,  "You 
may  close  your  eyes,  Jo." 

The  eyelids  of  the  negro  boy  closed  down  with 
leaden  slowness — his  breathing  deepened — he  seemed 
to  sleep. 

Brookfield  looked  at  the  doctor — the  doctor  lifted 
139 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

his  hand,  prompting  Brookfield  in  the  experiment. 
Brookfield  placed  his  own  hand  some  inches  over  Jo's 
and  moved  it  slowly  to  one  side.  The  boy's  hand 
followed.  Brookfield  replaced  it  by  the  same  method. 
When  Brookfield's  head  was  inclined  to  either  side 
Jo's  head  moved  with  it. 

Monroe  took  the  boy's  wrist  in  his  grasp,  noting 
beneath  his  skilled  index-finger  that  the  pulse  was 
accentuated — the  doctor  indicated  the  fact.  Brook- 
field  was  aware  that  his  own  heart  was  beating  faster 
than  usual.  He  had  a  moment's  scientific  curiosity 
as  to  whether  its  quickened  action  was  due  to  the 
novelty  of  his  occupation  or  was  in  reflex  from  his 
subject. 

The  room  was  purring  like  a  sea-shell. 

Before  him  was  the  still  form  of  the  negro;  at  his 
side  the  smiling,  quizzical,  intellectual  face  of  the 
physician;  about  them  the  Sphinx  with  its  unsolved 
riddle,  the  voiceless  masks  of  the  great  dead,  the  bust 
of  Pallas  and  the  raven;  and  behind  them  all,  back  of 
the  sleeper  and  the  questioner  and  beneath  the  sym 
bols,  the  unifying,  buoyant,  pervading  field  of  force 
on  which  Brookfield  felt  he  was  about  to  tread. 

He  moved  a  chair  near  to  the  boy  and  sat  down. 
Close  to  Brookfield's  mental  elbow  and  slightly  behind 
him,  as  he  sensed  it,  an  admonitory  something  repeated 
to  him  the  scruples  of  the  author  to  whom  Prentice 
had  introduced  him — scruples  about  invading  the 
personal  domain  of  another  soul;  but  Brookfield  felt 
that  a  darky  boy's  subconscious  territory  could  not 
but  be  improved  by  the  squatter  immigration  of  a 
white  man's  volition,  and  especially  when  the  fili- 

140 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

busterer  came  to  eject  a  Voodoo  usurper.     In  a  low 
monotone  Brookfield  began  to  speak  to  the  boy: 

"  The  spell  that  that  Louisiana  darky  threw  over 
you,  Jo,  will  be  gone  when  you  wake  up;  so  will 
that  tired  feeling.  You  will  enjoy  your  food  after 
this,  and  you  will  be  more  cheerful ;  you  won't  be  low 
in  your  mind  any  more,  and  there  won't  any  nigger 
cast  any  spell  on  you  again.  You  are  sleeping  now 
— you  are  getting  a  lot  more  rest  than  you  would 
out  of  any  other  sleep.  The  tired  feeling  is  going 
away  from  you  even  now,  and  when  I  tell  you  to 
wake  up  you  will  feel  almost  as  though  you'd  had  a 
full  night's  rest." 

Just  then  the  electric  buzzer  connected  with  the 
front-door  button  sounded  in  the  back  hall.  Jo  had 
previously  left  the  door  of  the  back  hall  open  when 
he  entered,  in  order  that  the  sound  of  the  annunciator 
might  be  heard. 

"Now,  who  can  that  be  at  this  hour?"  Brookfield 
said,  as  much  to  himself  as  to  the  doctor.  The 
answer  to  his  question  came  from  the  sleeping 
darky. 

"That's  Mr.  Ellinger,  suh." 

"Mr.  Ellinger?" 

"  Yes,  suh;  he's  at  the  front  door;  he's  got  a  paper 
bundle  under  his  arm  with  two  ducks  in  it." 

Brookfield  looked  at  the  doctor. 

"Can  that  be  so?" 

"It  will  be  interesting  if  it  is — wake  him,  and  find 
out." 

Brookfield  spoke  to  the  boy,  snapping  his  fingers 
sharply  before  his  eyes  as  he  did  so. 

141 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"  That  will  do,  Jo— wake  up."  Jo  awoke.  "  There's 
somebody  at  the  front  door,"  said  Brookfield. 

"Is  there?"  said  the  boy. 

"The  bell  just  sounded." 

"I  didn't  hear  it,  suh,"  said  Jo,  apologetically; 
"excuse  me."  Jo  left  to  answer  the  summons. 

"If  that's  Ellinger  at  the  door,"  said  Brookfield  to 
the  doctor  when  they  were  alone,  "how  do  you  ex 
plain  that  boy's  knowledge  of  it?" 

"Clairvoyance,"  the  doctor  answered,  laconically. 

"You  know  what  Hudson  would  call  it?" 

The  doctor  nodded.     "  Telepathic  h  trois." 

The  boy  returned,  followed  by  Ellinger,  who  had 
under  his  arm  a  home-made  bundle.  His  face  wore 
a  beam  of  genial  good-humor. 

" 'Evening,  gentlemen,"  Lew  greeted.  "You  will 
excuse  the  lateness  of  my  call,  Jack,  but  I  saw  a  light 
in  the  window,  and — " 

Jack  finished  the  sentence  for  him. 

"And  you  didn't  want  to  carry  both  those  ducks 
home." 

Lew  held  the  bundle  before  him,  turning  it  over 
and  over  with  critical  examination.  At  length,  in  be 
wilderment,  he  said: 

"  How  the  devil  did  you  know  that  bundle  was 
ducks?" 

Little  Jo,  who  stood  by,  regarded  the  scene  with 
eyes  bulging  in  amazement. 

The  reviewing  courts  denied  the  application  of 
Whipple's  attorney  for  a  new  trial. 
But  one  hope  remained. 
142 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

That  hope  lay  in  a  constitutional  point  upon  which 
appeal  was  made  to  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United 
States.  The  point  was  most  wire-drawn  and  attenu 
ated.  The  attorneys  themselves  submitted  it  more 
in  a  determination  to  interpose  every  obstacle  to  an 
execution  of  the  sentence  upon  their  client  than  in 
a  belief  in  the  soundness  of  the  contention.  The 
basis  of  their  appeal  lay  in  the  fact  that  the  Court 
had  given  an  order  limiting  the  number  of  spectators. 
This  order  was  given  because  the  janitor  had  dis 
covered  a  crack  in  the  concrete  ceiling  of  the  cellar 
below  the  court-room.  The  order  was  enforced  only 
during  two  days,  and  until  the  architect,  who  hap 
pened  to  be  absent  from  the  city,  could  return  and 
make  an  examination.  The  crack  had  probably  been 
there  from  the  date  of  building,  and  bore  no  relation 
to  the  increased  weight  above  it.  The  ceiling  in  ques 
tion  was  of  steel  girders,  and  capable  of  serving  as  the 
floor  of  a  round-house.  To  limit  the  number  of  spec 
tators,  however,  the  sheriff  had  issued  tickets  of 
admission.  The  defence  submitted  that  in  an  unre 
stricted  attendance  some  casual  and  voluntary  wit 
ness  might  have  entered  with  an  experience  which 
paralleled  that  of  their  client,  and  that  the  recital 
of  such  similar  history  might  have  weighed  with  the 
jury.  The  contention  that  the  constitutional  guar 
antee  of  a  public  trial  had  back  of  it  a  belief  in  the 
probability  or  possibility  of  such  fortuitous  testimony 
was  pathetically  hopeless,  but  it  was  a  straw,  and 
they  were  drowning. 

Brookfield  saw  in  the  appeal  nothing  but  delay,  yet 
to  Helen  he  argued  for  its  promise.  He  even  led  her 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

to  place  some  hope  in  his  own  acquaintance  with  Jus 
tice  Prentice,  a  member  of  the  Court.  Helen,  like 
most  women,  was  too  uninformed  concerning  the 
integrity  and  the  incorruptible  impartiality  of  that 
august  body  to  see,  as  Brookfield  knew,  the  futility, 
or  rather  the  fatality,  of  any  attempt  to  influence 
one  of  its  members.  Yet  to  buoy  her  failing  hope 
he  urged  the  value  of  this  acquaintance  —  he  also 
showed  her  the  letter  recently  received  from  Justice 
Prentice. 

Helen's  memory,  stimulated  by  the  sight  of  this 
letter,  recalled  another  letter,  and  in  a  firmer  hand, 
which  identified  the  writer  of  both  as  one  of  whom 
she  had  heard  her  mother  speak. 

"This  Justice  Prentice — was  he,  too,  a  Kentuck- 
ian?" 

"Yes." 

Helen  at  once  set  about  finding  such  letters  or 
papers  as  might  establish  the  friendship  between  the 
families,  or  might  point  to  other  like  avenues  of  in 
fluence.  Her  mother's  effects  were  in  the  possession 
of  another  daughter  older  than  Helen,  who  lived  with 
her  husband  now  removed  to  the  Ozark  country. 

More  to  set  Helen  a  task  that  would  employ  her 
mind  and  give  her  a  change  of  scene  than  because 
her  personal  attention  to  the  duty  was  required,  or 
that  any  profit  might  come  of  it,  Brookfield  advised 
her  to  go  to  her  sister's  home  and  to  make  the  search 
of  her  mother's  papers  herself. 

Lew  Ellinger  went  with  her. 

After  Helen's  departure  the  duty  of  the  daily  visit 
to  Clay  devolved  principally  upon  Viola,  who  had  as 

144 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

company  her  mother,  or  as  escort  her  uncle  Jack  or 
Dr.  Monroe.  These  visits  to  Clay  in  jail  were  always 
in  the  presence  and.  hearing  of  a  guard,  and  with  iron 
bars  between  Viola  and  Clay.  No  contact,  even  of 
finger-tips,  was  permitted  between  her  and  him,  for 
in  such  slight  communication  might  be  conveyed  a 
drop  of  poison  that  would  rob  a  great  commonwealth 
of  its  revenge.  Notwithstanding  these  hard  restric 
tions,  Clay  was  cheered  by  the  visits  not  more  through 
Viola's  hope  for  him  and  her  confidence  in  his  ulti 
mate  acquittal  than  he  was  by  a  strange  sense  of  near 
ness  to  Brookfield  and  of  his  protection.  On  one 
occasion  Viola  inquired  if  at  a  certain  hour  of  the 
night  previous  Clay  had  not  called  the  guard  to  the 
grating  in  his  cell  and  asked  for  a  blanket.  Clay  look 
ed  quickly  at  the  guard  then  on  duty — to  whom,  in 
fact,  the  request  had  been  made.  The  guard's  won 
der  at  the  question  was  as  great  as  Clay's.  Viola  ex 
plained  that  she  had  no  knowledge  of  the  fact  her 
self,  but  asked  the  question  at  Uncle  Jack's  request. 
Another  and  a  smiliar  question  at  a  later  date  verify 
ing  another  experiment  of  Brookfield 's  only  served 
to  increase  the  watchfulness  of  the  officials.  It  was 
evident  to  them  that  some  underhand  work  was  being 
attempted  in  the  jail. 

Brookfield's  inquiries  ceased,  but  the  short  naps 
which  Jo  took  in  his  master's  library  continued  in 
order  that  "Marse  Jack"  might  make  Jo  more  and 
more  immune  to  every  hoodoo  in  the  world. 

Helen  and  Ellinger  returned.  Both  had  been  suc 
cessful.  Helen  had  found  the  letters  for  which  she 
had  searched,  and  Lew  had  found  a  game  in  Spring- 


THE   WITCHING  HOUR 

field  from  which  he  had  won  enough  not  only  to  pay 
expenses  both  ways,  but  to  cover  his  seemingly  in 
explicable  losses  to  Helen's  brother  -  in  -  law,  whose 
guests  he  and  Helen  had  been,  and  who  had  devel 
oped  an  increasing  fondness  for  seven-up  during  the 
visit.  Lew  admitted  to  Jack  that  these  losses  to  the 
brother-in-law  amounted  to  very  little  more  than 
board  and  lodging  would  have  footed  had  he  and 
Helen  invited  comment  by  staying  at  the  hoteL 
Jack's  austerity  during  the  circumspect  phase  of  this 
confidence  only  aggravated  a  slight  bronchial  irrita 
tion  of  Ellinger's  and  increased  Lew's  anxiety  con 
cerning  the  adjustment  of  his  boutonnibre. 


IN  Washington,  one  evening  in  November,  Justice 
Prentice  sat  at  a  game  of  chess  with  Justice  Hen 
derson,  an  associate  of  his  Court.  About  them  were 
books,  for  the  most  part  heavy  and  uninviting,  be 
hind  antiquated  casements  of  diamond-shaped  panes, 
for  they  were  seated  in  the  library  of  Justice  Pren 
tice's  house.  The  room  itself  was  as  easy  as  an  old 
slipper — warm  with  lamp  and  firelight,  sweetly  aro 
matic  with  the  trimmings  of  a  side-table  on  which  a 
kettle  simmered  above  a  spirit  flame.  Near  the  aged 
players  two  tumblers  stood  amid  the  killed  and  capt 
ured  chessmen,  beside  the  checkered  field  on  which 
knight  and  bishop  still  interposed  between  contending 
royalties.  From  each  tumbler  a  gentle  incense  lifted 
languidly  above  a  curl  of  lemon  in  the  vapor-bath. 

The  two  men,  though  near  the  same  age,  were  alike 
in  little  else  except  judicial  moderation  of  speech — 
Justice  Prentice,  poetical,  sensitive,  artistic,  almost 
femininely  intuitive,  refined  in  features  and  expres 
sion,  delicate  of  frame,  and  elegant  in  manner ;  Justice 
Henderson,  practical,  positive,  matter-of-fact,  scep 
tical,  quizzical  in  glance,  secretive,  quaintly  humor 
ous,  sturdy,  and  ordinary  in  figure  and  carriage. 

From  time  to  time  as  one  pondered  over  a  play  the 
other  moved  about  the  room,  or,  lighting  a  pipe,  stood 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

by  and  studied  the  board.  There  was  this  difference 
in  their  methods :  in  Justice  Henderson's  attack  of  a 
problem  his  look  was  fixed  on  the  pieces  and  with  a 
roving  activity;  Justice  Prentice  frequently  looked 
through  the  smoke  to  the  ceiling  or  closed  his  eyes 
entirely.  After  one  of  these  silences  Henderson  made 
a  move  and  announced: 

"Checkmate  in  three  moves!" 

"  I  don't  see  that,"  said  Prentice,  his  gaze  returning 
to  the  board. 

Henderson  began  to  explain  and  to  demonstrate, 
his  finger  above  the  pieces.  "Well,  knight  to — " 

"Yes,  yes — I  see,"  interrupted  Prentice;  "check 
mate  in  three  moves — that's  one  game  each.  Shall 
we  play  another?" 

"Let's  look  at  the  enemy."  Henderson  drew  his 
watch.  "  By  Jove!  Quarter  of  twelve!  I  guess  Mrs. 
Henderson  will  be  expecting  me  soon."  And  then, 
as  he  returned  his  timepiece  to  his  pocket,  he  looked 
up  with  a  new  interest:  "I'll  play  a  rubber  with  you, 
Mr.  Justice,  and  its  result  shall  decide  your  position 
on  the  Whipple  case." 

"Why,  I'm  surprised  at  you!  A  United  States 
Supreme  Court  decision  shaped  by  a  game  of  chess! 
We'll  be  down  to  the  level  of  intelligent  jurymen  soon, 
nipping  pennies  for  a  verdict." 

"And  a  very  good  method  in  just  such  cases  as 
this,"  Justice  Henderson  protested.  "Well,  if  you 
won't  play,  I'll  have  to  go."  He  got  up  from  his 
place  at  the  table. 

His  host  also  rose,  taking  up  as  he  did  so  his  empty 
glass  and  moving  toward  the  sideboard. 

148 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"Not  without  another  toddy?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  come  now,  don't  you  like  this  liquor?" 

"Immensely!  Where  did  you  say  you  got  it?" 
Henderson  answered,  feebly  relenting. 

"Kentucky.     One  lump,  Judge?" 

"Only  one." 

Prentice  dropped  the  sugar  into  the  glass.  "  My  old 
home,  sir.  And  a  bit  of  lemon?" 

"A  piece  of  the  peel — yes." 

"They  make  it  there,"  Prentice  explained,  as  he 
reached  for  the  water-kettle. 

"I'll  pour  the  water,  Mr.  Justice,"  Henderson 
volunteered,  as  he  took  the  glass  from  Prentice  and 
tipped  the  kettle. 

"There,  there — don't  drown  me,"  cautioned  the 
host. 

"My  folks  were  Baptists,  you  see."  And  with  this 
time  -  worn  pleasantry  Henderson  handed  Prentice 
the  glass  half  full  of  water,  and  took  his  own  con 
taining  the  sugar  and  the  lemon-peel.  As  he  reached 
for  the  decanter  he  inquired: 

"What  did  you  say  it  cost  you,  Mr.  Justice?" 

"Fifty  cents  a  gallon." 

"What!"  Henderson  set  his  glass  down  upon  the 
side-table  with  exaggerated  caution,  and  going  to  the 
fireplace  pushed  the  button  of  an  electric  bell.  "I 
think  I'll  take  water." 

"That's  what  it  cost  me,"  Justice  Prentice  ex 
plained,  with  a  humorous  twinkle.  "  Its  value  I  don't 
know;  an  old  friend  sends  it  to  me — fifty  cents  for 
express." 

149 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"Oh!"  Henderson  relaxed  in  genuine  relief  and 
picked  up  his  glass  again. 

"That's  different,  isn't  it?" 

"Very." 

"He  makes  it  down  there,"  Prentice  resumed;  and 
then,  with  sudden  recollection :  "  Why,  it's  in  the  same 
county  in  which  this  Whipple  murder  occurred!" 

"How  about  that  point,  Mr.  Justice?"  Henderson 
remarked,  becoming  seriously  persuasive.  "  We  might 
as  well  admit  it  and  remand  the  case." 

"Oh  no,  there's  no  constitutional  point  involved." 

"A  man's  entitled  to  an  open  trial." 

"Well,  Whipple  had  it." 

"No,  he  didn't,"  contended  Henderson;  "they 
wouldn't  admit  the  public." 

"Oh,  come,  now  —  the  court -room  was  crowded, 
and  the  judge  refused  admission  to  others  only  when 
there  was  danger  of  the  floor  breaking." 

"But,  my  dear  Mr.  Justice,"  persisted  Henderson, 
"  that  would  have  been  all  right  to  limit  the  attend 
ance — " 

"Well,  that's  all  he  did." 

"  Only  he  did  it  by  having  the  sheriff  issue  tickets 
of  admission.  That  placed  the  attendance  entirely 
in  the  control  of  the  prosecution,  and  the  defence  is 
right  in  asking  a  rehearing." 

"Nonsense!  Justice  is  a  little  too  slow  in  my  old 
State,  and  I  am  impatient  with  technical  delays.  It 
is  now  years  since  they  openly  assassinated  the  gov 
ernor-elect,  and  the  guilty  men  still  at  large." 

"Why  should  the  killing  of  Scovil  bear  on  this 
case?"  asked  Henderson. 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"It  bears  on  me — I'm  concerned  for  the  fair  name 
of  Kentucky." 

"Well,  if  you  won't,  you  won't,  and  there's  an  end 
of  it."  Henderson  drained  his  glass  of  toddy. 

"Have  another?"  Prentice  invited,  in  perfunctory 
hospitality. 

"Not  another  drop." 

Prentice's  servant  came  into  the  room,  answering 
the  ring  of  Justice  Henderson,  who  now  asked  for  his 
coat.  The  servant  left  to  get  it.  Justice  Prentice, 
realizing  that  his  offer  of  another  toddy  might  have 
been  in  better  nature,  repeated  it  more  cordially. 

"No,  I  mustn't,"  his  guest  replied.  "Mrs.  Hender 
son  has  filed  her  protest  against  my  coming  home 
loaded." 

"Well,  if  you  won't,  you  won't."  And  the  host  set 
his  own  tumbler  on  the  side-table. 

"Hello!"  said  Henderson,  picking  up  a  book  bound 
in  limp  morocco,  "reading  the  Scriptures  in  your  old 
age?" 

"It  does  look  like  a  Bible,  doesn't  it?"  Prentice 
joined  him.  "That's  a  flexible  binding  I  had  put  on 
a  copy  of  Bret  Harte — I  admire  him  very  much." 

"I  like  some  of  his  stuff." 

"When  I  get  home  from  the  Capitol  and  you  prosy 
lawyers,  I'm  too  tired  to  read  Browning  and  those 
heavy  guns,  so  I  take  Bret  Harte  —  very  clever,  I 
think.  I  was  reading  '  A  Newport  Legend '  before 
you  came.  Do  you  know  it?" 

"I  don't  think  I  do." 

With  a  gesture  of  apology  Prentice  took  the  book 
from  his  friend,  explaining  as  he  turned  the  leaves : 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"It's  about  an  old  house  at  Newport  that's  haunted. 
A  young  girl  in  the  colonial  days  died  of  a  broken 
heart  in  the  house,  it  seems — her  sweetheart  sailed 
away  and  left  her — and  here's  the  way  Bret  Harte 
tells  of  her  coming  back." 

Justice  Prentice's  colleagues  on  the  bench  were 
aware  of  his  fondness  for  reading  aloud.  There  were 
times  when  their  enjoyment  of  it  was  less  than  his 
own.  Henderson  sat  down  in  submissive  resignation. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  going  to  read  all  of  it  to  you,"  Pren 
tice  growled,  in  playful  protest — "only  one  verse." 

Henderson  affected  to  conceal  a  smile  of  gratifica 
tion. 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you" — Prentice  again  interrupted 
himself — "that  when  this  chap  left  the  girl  he  gave 
her  a  little  bouquet — understand?"  Henderson  nod 
ded.  "That's  a  piece  of  material  evidence  necessary 
to  this  summing  up,"  and  in  a  legal  manner  Justice 
Prentice  patted  the  page  he  was  about  to  read.  Then, 
in  a  voice  trained  by  practice,  modulated  by  tem 
perament,  and  made  rich  by  a  life  of  self-control,  the 
jurist  read  wTith  exquisite  tenderness : 

"  'And  ever  since  then,  when  the  clock  strikes  two, 

She  walks  unbidden  from  room  to  room. 
And  the  air  is  filled  that  she  passes  through 

With  a  subtle,  sad  perfume. 
The  delicate  odor  of  mignonette. 

The  ghost  of  a  dead  and  gone  bouquet, 
Is  all  that  tells  of  her  story — yet 

Could  she  think  of  a  sweeter  way?'" 

In  a  manner  of  entire  and  light  relief,  he  turned  to 
Henderson. 


'COULD  SHE  THINK  OF  A  SWEETER  WAY?'  ISN'T  THAT  CHARMING.  EH 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"Isn't  that  charming,  eh?" 

"A  very  pretty  idea,"  Henderson  answered,  with 
judicial  composure. 

"Beautiful  to  have  a  perfume  suggest  her,"  Pren 
tice  urged,  with  stimulating  enthusiasm.  And  then, 
after  a  moment's  retrospection:  "I  suppose  it  ap 
peals  to  me  especially  because  I  used  to  know  a  girl 
who  was  foolishly  fond  of  mignonette."  The  Justice 
closed  the  book  tenderly. 

"Well,  you  don't  believe  that  stuff,  do  you?"  Hen 
derson  questioned. 

"What  stuff?" 

"That  Bret  Harte  stuff — the  dead  coming  back — 
ghosts,  and  so  forth." 

"Yes,  in  one  way  I  do.  I  find  as  I  get  older  that 
the  things  of  memory  become  more  real  every  day— 
every  day.  Why,  there  are  companions  of  my  boy 
hood  that  I  haven't  thought  of  for  years  who  seem 
to  come  about  me  more  tangibly,  or  as  much  so,  as 
they  were  in  life." 

This  poetic  side  of  his  nature  was  one  that  Pren 
tice  did  not  often  show  to  his  material-minded  friend, 
consequently  the  superior  smile  that  came  to  Hender 
son's  lips  was  not  surprising  as  he  said : 

"Well,  how  do  you  account  for  that?  Spiritual 
ism?" 

"Oh  no;    it's  time's  perspective." 

"Time's  perspective?"  Henderson  repeated,  in  a 
tone  that  he  would  have  used  to  a  confused  counsellor 
at  the  bar. 

"Yes."  Prentice,  turning  to  him,  realized  the  dif 
ficulty  of  conveying  his  idea  in  words  alone.  "I'll 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

have  to  illustrate  my  meaning."  He  walked  toward 
the  side-table,  above  which  hung  one  of  the  few  pict 
ures  in  the  room.  "Here's  a  sunset  by  Rousseau. 
I  bought  it  in  Paris  last  summer.  Do  you  see  what 
an  immense  stretch  of  land  there  is  in  it?" 

"Yes." 

"A  bird's-eye  view  of  that  would  require  a  chart 
reaching  to  the  ceiling.  But  see  Rousseau's  per 
spective.  The  horizon  line  isn't  two  inches  from  the 
base." 

"Well?" 

"Well,  my  dear  Mr.  Justice,  that  is  the  magic  in 
the  perspective  of  time.  My  boyhood's  horizon  is 
very  near  to  my  old  eyes  now.  The  dimmer  they 
grow  the  nearer  it  comes,  until  I  think  sometimes 
that  when  we  are  through  with  it  all  we  go  out  al 
most  as  we  entered — little  children." 

Henderson  was  moved  in  spite  of  himself,  but  more 
by  the  tone  of  the  speaker  than  by  the  nature  of  his 
subject.  It  was  against  his  ideas  of  self-discipline  to 
encourage  feeling  of  this  kind,  so,  at  a  loss  for  a  fitting 
reply,  he  walked  toward  the  picture,  affecting  an  in 
terest  in  its  artistic  merit. 

"A  very  beautiful  painting,  Mr.  Justice — a  Russell, 
you  say?" 

"A  Rousseau." 

"Oh!" 

"Yes,"  said  Prentice,  throwing  off  his  reflective 
mood,  "it  cost  me  three  thousand  only;  and  a  funny 
thing  about  it :  the  canvas  just  fitted  into  the  top  of 
my  steamer  trunk.  It  came  through  the  custom-house 
without  a  cent  of  duty.  I  completely  forgot  it." 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"Your  memory  isn't  so  retentive,  then,  as  it 
seems." 

"Not  on  those  commercial  matters."  Prentice 
joined  heartily  in  the  laugh  against  himself. 

The  servant  crossed  the  room  with  Justice  Hender 
son's  coat  on  his  arm.  In  doing  so  it  brushed  from 
the  table  where  the  men  had  been  playing  a  small 
object  which  fell  to  the  floor  with  a  metallic  sound. 

"You  dropped  your  tobacco-box,  I  think,"  Pren 
tice  said,  as  the  servant  was  assisting  Henderson  with 
his  overcoat. 

"No,  I  think  not."  Henderson  patted  his  coat- 
pocket  to  make  sure. 

"It  was  this  picture,  sir,"  the  servant  explained, 
lifting  the  fallen  object  from  the  floor. 

"My  gracious,  my  gracious,  it  might  have  been 
broken!"  exclaimed  Prentice.  He  took  the  picture 
tenderly  from  the  man. 

"Oh,  it  often  falls  when  I'm  dusting,  sir,"  remarked 
the  servant. 

"Oh,  does  it?"  ejaculated  Prentice,  in  unfeigned 
surprise,  as  the  servant  left  the  room.  "Well,  I'll 
put  it  away. .  . .  An  ivory  miniature  by  Wimar."  With 
the  caress  of  a  connoisseur  he  handed  the  picture  to 
Henderson.  "I  prize  it  highly.  Old-fashioned  por 
trait — see — gold  back." 

"A  beautiful  face." 

"Isn't  it— isn't  it?" 

"Very.  What  a  peculiar  way  of  combing  the  hair 
— long;  and  over  the  ears."  Henderson  pantomimed 
the  process  with  a  gesture  comically  unfeminine. 

"The  only  becoming  way  women  ever  wore  their 
»  155 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

hair.     I  think  the  scrambly  style  they  have  now  is 
disgraceful." 

"Your  mother,  Mr.  Justice?" 

"Oh,  dear,  no;  a  young  girl  I  used  to  know.  Oh, 
don't  smile — she's  been  dead  a  good  five-and-twenty 
years — married  and  had  a  large  family." 

"Very  sweet — very  sweet  indeed." 

"  Isn't  it  ?  And  see  the  bodice,  too — how  pretty! — 
the  mammillar  bands,  you  see.  They  used  to  make 
the  waists  with  just  a  piece  or  two  of  whalebone." 

"How  do  you  know,  you  grizzly  old  bach?"  said 
Henderson,  nudging  Prentice  playfully  in  the  ribs. 

"In  Heaven's  name,  why  shouldn't  I?"  Prentice 
laughed,  holding  Henderson  by  the  elbow  with  one 
hand  and  placing  the  other  affectionately  upon  his 
shoulder  as  he  looked  over  at  the  ivory  miniature. 
"  Get  out — get  out !  But  look  at  it !  Such  suppleness 
and  rotundity,  and  all  that!"  The  two  old  friends 
regarded  the  picture  a  moment  in  silence,  and  then, 
as  if  resenting  the  changed  conditions  of  his  life, 
Prentice  walked  away  from  Henderson,  who  still  re 
tained  the  miniature. 

"  A  year  or  so  ago  I  was  in  Kentucky,  and  on  my 
way  back  I  stopped  in  Indiana  for  a  call  on  Harland. 
He  was  in  chambers  hearing  a  copyright  case.  It 
seemed  that  a  corset-maker — " 

"A  what?"  interrupted  Henderson,  in  pretended 
expostulation. 

"A  corset-maker,"  Prentice  courageously  repeated, 
"was  suing  some  one  for  infringing  his  right  to  an 
advertisement — a  picture  of  the  Venus  de  Medici  or 
Lucrezia  Borgia,  or  some  of  those  dear  old  girls,  in  one 

156 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

of  this  chap's  corsets.  You  must  have  seen  it  in  the 
window.  Well,  he  had  his  lithograph  and  one  of  his 
corsets  in  court.  Do  you  believe  me,  it  was  made  of 
steel  and  brass  and  buckram  and  all  kinds  of  hard 
ware?" 

"Oh  yes,"  Henderson  answered,  smiling;  "we  have 
them  at  home." 

"Harland  whispered  to  me,  'What  do  you  think 
of  it,  Mr.  Justice?'  and  I  said,  'I  thank  God  I'm  a 
bachelor." 

Their  laughter  was  again  interrupted  by  Prentice's 
servant,  who  entered  with  a  card.  Prentice  read  the 
name  and  said  he  would  see  the  visitor. 

"A  call?"  queried  Henderson,  when  the  servant 
had  left  the  room. 

"  Yes.  The  man  owns  a  picture  that  I've  been  try 
ing  to  buy — a  Corot." 

"Oh,  another  of  these  'perspective'  fellows,  eh?" 

"Yes;  his  call  doesn't  surprise  me,  because  he's 
been  in  my  mind  all  day." 

"  Seems  to  be  in  a  hurry  for  the  money,  coming  at 
midnight." 

"  I  set  him  the  example.  Besides,  midnight  is  just 
the  shank  of  the  evening  for  Mr.  Brookfield — he's 
supposed  to  be  a  sporting  man." 

Prentice  coughed  warningly  as  the  servant  opened 
the  door  and  ushered  in  Jack  Brookfield.  It  struck 
the  Justice  as  he  greeted  his  visitor  that  he  was  a 
trifle  pale.  He  extended  his  hand  cordially. 

"Good-evening,  Mr.  Brookfield." 

"You  remember  me,  Mr.  Justice?"  said  Brookfield, 
as  he  met  the  greeting. 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"Perfectly.    This  is  Justice  Henderson." 

"I  hope  I'm  not  intruding — "  Brookfield  began; 
but  Henderson  took  him  up. 

"  I'm  just  going,  Mr.  Brookfield."  The  Justice  but 
toned  his  overcoat  and  crossed  to  the  door.  Prentice 
followed  him. 

"No  constitutional  point  about  it?"  Henderson 
made  a  last  appeal  for  the  Whipple  case. 

"None,"  Prentice  answered,  firmly. 

"Good-night." 

"Good-night." 

As  the  door  closed  after  Henderson,  Prentice  turned 
to  Brookfield,  who  had  been  regarding  the  Rousseau. 

"  Have  a  chair,  Mr.  Brookfield." 

"Thank  you,"  Brookfield  answered,  deferentially. 

Prentice  indicated  the  side-table. 

"  I've  some  medicine  here  that  comes  directly  from 
your  city." 

"I  don't  think  I  will,  if  you'll  excuse  me." 

"Well,  have  you  brought  the  picture?" 

"The  picture  is  still  in  Louisville — I'm  in  Wash 
ington  with  my  niece — " 

"Yes." 

"And  a  friend  of  hers — a  lady.  They  are  very 
anxious  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Justice." 

"Ah!"  Prentice  paused.  "Well,  I  go  to  the  Cap 
itol  at  noon  to-morrow." 

"To-night,"  Brookfield  interrupted;  "they're  leav 
ing  the  city  tc-morrow,  as  you  were  when  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  receiving  you." 

"I  remember." 

Brookfield  drew  out  his  watch. 

158 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR 

"They  were  to  come  after  me  in  five  minutes  if  I 
didn't  return,  and  those  five  minutes,  Mr.  Justice,  I 
hoped  you  would  give  to  me." 

"With  pleasure." 

The  Justice  sat  down  amiably,  but  Brookfield  re 
mained  standing,  thoughtfully  silent,  as  though  con 
sidering  his  mission.  At  length,  with  compensating 
positiveness,  he  began: 

"Those  two  books  that  you  sent  me — " 

"Yes." 

"  I  want  to  thank  you  for  them  again  and  ask  you 
how  far  you  go  with  the  men  who  wrote  them,  es 
pecially  the  second  one.  Do  you  believe  that  book  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  do.  I  know  the  man  who  wrote  it,  and  I 
believe  him." 

"  Did  he  ever  do  any  of  the  stunts  for  you  that  he 
writes  about?" 

"He  didn't  call  them 'stunts,' but  he  has  given  me 
many  demonstrations  of  his  power — and  mine." 

"For  example?" 

"For  example?"  Prentice  paused  a  moment,  medi 
tating.  "  Well,  he  asked  me  to  think  of  him  steadily 
at  some  unexpected  time,  and  to  think  of  some  defi 
nite  thing.  A  few  days  later — in  this  room — two 
o'clock  in  the  morning — I  concentrated  my  thoughts 
— I  mentally  pictured  him  going  to  his  telephone  and 
calling  me." 

"And  did  he  do  it?"  Brookfield  asked,  eagerly. 

"No."  As  Prentice  paused  a  shade  of  disappoint 
ment  crossed  Brookfield's  face.  "But  he  came  here 
at  my  breakfast-hour  and  told  me  that  at  two  o'clock 
he  had  waked  and  risen  from  his  bed  and  walked  to 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR 

his  'phone  in  the  hallway  with  an  impulse  to  call 
and  then  had  stopped  because  he  had  no  message  to 
deliver  and  because  he  thought  his  imagination  might 
be  tricking  him." 

"You  hadn't  given  him  any  tip,  such  as  asking 
him  how  he'd  slept?" 

"None.  Five  nights  after  that  I  repeated  the 
experiment." 

"Well?" 

"That  time  he  called  me." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"  He  said,  '  Old  man,  you  ought  to  be  in  bed  asleep 
and  not  disturbing  honest  citizens,'  which  was  quite 
true." 

Both  men  smiled  at  the  Justice's  admission.  There 
was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  Brookfield  said,  in 
a  voice  that  wavered  between  awe  and  amusement: 

"By  Jove!  That's  kind  of  harking  back  to  the 
Salem  witchcraft  business,  isn't  it?" 

"Distinctly,"  Prentice  assented,  "and  in  a  measure 
explaining  the '  witchcraft  business.'  Those  old  wom 
en  of  Salem  were  the  unconscious  pioneers  in  a  new 
mental  field.  A  poor,  lone  creature,  hungry  for  com 
panionship,  let  her  thoughts  dwell  on  some  young  girl 
of  the  neighborhood ;  the  girl's  thoughts  answered  by 
this  inevitable  law — " 

"Really  inevitable?" 

"Really  inevitable.  The  girl  could  neglect  the  old 
woman  and  her  neighborly  claim  for  sympathy,  but 
when  she  couldn't  banish  the  woman  from  her 
thoughts  they  called  it  witchcraft,  and  hanged  the 
woman." 

1 60 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"It's  a  devilish  creepy  business,  isn't  it?"  Brook- 
field  said,  after  a  moment's  thought. 

"Yes." 

"And  if  it's  so — "  he  continued,  more  to  himself  than 
to  the  Justice. 

"And  it  is  so,"  Prentice  pursued. 

"Pays  a  man  to  be  careful  what  he  thinks." 

"It  will  very  well  pay  your  type  of  a  man  to  do  so." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  possessed  by  any  of  these  bug 
house  theories,  but  I'm  blamed  if  a  few  things  haven't 
happened  to  me,  Mr.  Justice,  since  you  started  me 
on  this  subject." 

"Along  this  line?" 

"Yes,"  Brookfield  answered;  and  then,  with  an 
air  of  confession,  he  added:  "And  I've  tried  the  other 
side  of  it,  too." 

"What  other  side?" 

"The  mesmeric  business."  Brookfield  involunta 
rily  suggested  the  motion  of  the  hypnotist  as  he  saidi 
"I  can  do  it." 

Again  Brookfield  felt  the  steadiness  of  the  old  man's 
gaze.  He  met  it  just  as  steadily  as  he  found  himself 
wondering  which  of  his  thoughts  his  silent  inquisitor 
was  reading.  After  a  moment  of  this  telepathic  in 
terrogation,  as  Brookfield  construed  it,  the  Justice 
leaned  forward  on  the  table. 

"Then  I  should  say,  Mr.  Brookfield,  that  for  you 
the  obligation  of  clean  and  unselfish  thinking  was 
doubly  imperative." 

"Within  this  last  year  I've  put  persons — well,  prac 
tically  asleep  in  a  chair,  and  I've  made  them  tell  me 
what  a  boy  was  doing  a  mile  away,  in  a  jail." 

161 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"I  see  no  reason  to  call  clairvoyance  a  bug-house 
theory,"  Prentice  answered,  easily. 

"I  only  know  that  I  do  it." 

"Yes,  you  have  the  youth  for  it  —  the  glorious 
strength."  There  was  a  pathetic  note  of  regret  in 
the  old  man's  voice.  "Does  it  make  any  demand  on 
your  vitality?" 

"I've  fancied  that  a  headache  to  which  I'm  sub 
ject  is  more  frequent — that's  all."  Brookfield  passed 
his  hand  over  his  eyes — a  gesture  that  had  become 
characteristic. 

"But  you  find  the  ability — the  power — increases, 
don't  you?" 

"Yes.  Within  the  last  month  I've  put  a  man  into 
an  hypnotic  sleep  with  half  a  dozen  waves  of  the 
hand." 

As  Brookfield  lifted  his  hand  from  the  back  of  the 
chair  and  voluntarily  repeated  the  mesmeric  pass, 
Prentice  asked: 

"Why  any  motion?" 

"Fixes  his  attention,  I  suppose." 

"Fixes  your  attention."  The  old  Justice  smiled. 
"When  in  your  own  mind  your  belief  is  sufficiently 
trained,  you  won't  need  this — "  And  Prentice  imi 
tated  Brookfield's  gesture. 

"I  won't?"  somewhat  incredulously. 

"No." 

"What  '11  I  do?" 

"Simply  think." 

Brookfield  smiled  slightly. 

"You  have  a  headache,  for  example?" 

"I  have  a  headache,  for  a  fact." 

162 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"Well,  some  persons  could  cure  it  by  rubbing  your 
forehead." 

"I  know  that,"  Brookfield  admitted,  remembering 
how  Viola  had  done  so. 

' '  Others  could  cure  it  by  the  passes  of  the  hypnotist ; 
others  by  simply  willing  that  it  should  be  cured." 

"Well,  that's  where  I  can't  follow  you  and  your 
friend,  the  author." 

"You  simply  think  your  head  aches,"  Prentice  said, 
tolerantly. 

"I  know  it  aches." 

"I  think  it  doesn't." 

"What?"  Brookfield  looked  at  his  host,  who  was 
leaning  quietly  back  in  his  easy-chair,  his  eyes  closed. 

"I  think  it  doesn't,"  the  old  man  repeated,  gently. 

The  pain  in  Brookfield's  head  ceased,  as  it  some 
times  did,  for  the  space  of  a  heart-beat.  He  waited 
for  a  second  pulse  and  a  third,  confident  of  its  return, 
when,  feeling  that  further  delay  would  be  impolite,  he 
answered  truthfully: 

"Well,  just  at  this  moment  it  doesn't.  But  isn't 
that  simply  mental  excitement — won't  it  come  back?" 

' '  It  won't  come  back  to-day."  There  was  no  doubt 
in  the  affirmative  tone. 

"Well,  that's  some  comfort.  The  blamed  things 
have  made  it  busy  for  me  since  I've  been  studying 
this  business." 

"It  is  a  two-edged  sword."  Prentice  opened  his 
eyes  and  looked  compassionately  at  his  visitor. 

"You  mean  it's  bad  for  a  man  who  tries  it?" 

"I  mean  that  it  constantly  opens  to  the  investigator 
new  mental  heights,  higher  planes;  and  every  man, 

163 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

Mr.  Brookfield,  is  ill  in  some  manner  who  lives  habitu 
ally  on  a  lower  level  than  that  of  the  light  he  sees." 

The  servant  announced  that  two  ladies  were  in  the 
reception-room  below. 

"Your  friends?"  Prentice  asked  Brookfield. 

"I  think  so." 

"Yes,  sir,"  the  servant  volunteered. 

"Ask  them  to  come  up."  The  Justice  rose  and 
took  a  tumbler  from  the  table.  "I'll  put  away  Jus 
tice  Henderson's  glass,"  he  said,  in  explanation  of 
his  act. 

"They're  Kentucky  ladies,  Mr.  Justice." 

"But  I  don't  want  any  credit  for  a  hospitality  I 
haven't  earned." 


XI 


A3  the  two  ladies  came  into  the  room,  Viola  was 
slightly  in  advance  of  Helen.  Jack  took  her  hand 
and  presented  her  to  the  Justice.     As  he  turned  to 
Helen,  she  said: 

"One  moment,  Jack;  I  prefer  to  introduce  my 
self." 

Justice  Prentice  desired  the  ladies  to  be  seated. 

"You  are  not  a  married  man,  Justice  Prentice?" 
Helen  began,  interrogatively. 

There  was  a  tone  of  tender  regret  in  the  voice  of 
the  old  Justice  as  he  answered,  quietly 

"I  am  not." 

"But  you  have  the  reputation  of  being  a  very 
charitable  one." 

"That's  pleasant  to  hear." 

Prentice  resumed  his  chair  opposite  to  that  in 
which  Helen  had  seated  herself.  Brookfield  stood 
by  the  table,  slightly  out  of  the  Justice's  range  of 
vision,  reassuringly  holding  Viola's  hand.  He  knew 
by  her  trembling  that  the  girl  was  in  an  agony  of 
apprehension. 

"What  charity  do  you  represent?"  Prentice  asked, 
by  way  of  an  opening. 

"None.  I  hardly  know  how  to  tell  you  my  ob 
ject." 

165 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"It's  a  personal  matter,  is  it?"  Prentice  looked 
to  Brookfield  to  help  him  out. 

"Yes,  a  very  personal  matter,  Mr.  Justice." 

"I  have  here,"  said  Helen,  "an  autograph-book." 

Again  Prentice  looked  at  Brookfield  with  a  slight, 
amused  smile.  "I  usually  sign  my  autograph  for 
those  who  wish  it  at  the — " 

"I  did  not  come  for  an  autograph,  Justice  Pren 
tice,"  Helen  broke  in,  tremulously;  "I  have  brought 
one." 

"Well,  I  don't  go  in  for  that  kind  of  thing  very 
much — I  have  no  collection.  My  taste  runs  more 
toward — " 

"The  autograph  I  have  brought  is  one  of  yours 
written  many  years  ago.  It  is  signed  to  a  letter." 
Helen  offered  the  book.  "Will  you  look  at  it?" 

"With  pleasure,"  Prentice  replied,  adjusting  his 
glasses.  "Is  this  the  letter?" 

Helen  nodded. 

The  Justice  read  aloud:  "'June  15,  i860.1  Dear 
me,  that's  a  long  time  ago.  'My  dear  Margaret, — 
The  matter  passed  off  satisfactorily — a  mere  scratch 
— Boland  apologized. — Jeff.'.  .  .  What  is  this?" 

"A  letter  from  you." 

Prentice  himself  showed  agitation  both  in  voice 
and  face  as  he  repeated  the  words: 

" '  My  dear  Margaret  .  .  .  1860. '  Why,  this  letter 
— was  it  written  to  Margaret — ?" 

"To  Margaret  Price,"  Helen  affirmed,  in  a  voice 
almost  inaudible  with  emotion. 

"Is  it  possible?  Well,  well!"  Prentice  looked 
dreamily  at  the  miniature  lying  on  the  table  before 

166 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

him.  "  I  wonder  if  what  we  call  coincidences  are  ever 
mere  coincidences.  Margaret  Price!  Her  name  was 
on  my  lips  only  a  moment  ago." 

"Really,  Mr.  Justice?"  Brookfield  asked,  his  heart 
taking  unreasonable  hope  from  the  circumstance. 

"Yes.     Did  you  know  Margaret  Price?" 

Brookfield  turned  to  Helen  as  he  answered  in  the 
affirmative.  Prentice's  gaze  followed  Brookfield's, 
and  in  response  to  his  look  more  than  to  his  words 
Helen  said: 

"  She  was  my  mother." 

"Margaret  Price  was — ?" 

"Was  my  mother." 

The  old  Justice  leaned  back  in  his  chair;  over  his 
face  there  passed  in  turn  astonishment,  perplexity, 
tenderness. 

"Why,  I  was  just  speaking  of  her  to  Justice  Hen 
derson,  who  went  out  as  you  came  in — you  remem 
ber?" 

He  appealed  with  animation  to  Brookfield,  who 
nodded  assent.  His  audience  of  three  hung  almost 
breathlessly  on  his  words. 

"Her  picture  dropped  from  the  table  here — this 
miniature."  He  took  the  ivory  portrait  in  his  hand 
affectionately.  "  Margaret  Price  gave  it  to  me  her 
self.  And  you  " — his  tender  old  eyes  lifted  to  Helen's, 
his  voice  trembled  and  dropped  to  a  lower  key — 
"and  you  are  her  daughter?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Justice." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  can  see  the  likeness.  At  twenty  you 
must  have  looked  very  like  this  miniature."  He 
handed  the  portrait  to  Helen. 

167 


THE  WITCHING   HOUR 

"I  have  photographs  of  myself  that  are  very  like 
this,"  Helen  said,  handing  the  picture  to  Jack.  As 
he  and  Viola  studied  it  together,  Helen  turned  to  the 
Justice,  pursuing  the  topic  that  had  begun  so  auspi 
ciously. 

"And  you  say  you  were  speaking  of  her  just  now?" 

"Not  five  minutes  ago." 

"What  were  you  saying  of  her?" 

Brookfield  put  the  miniature  down  on  the  table 
and  waited  for  the  answer.  The  Justice  hesitated 
strangely,  but  once  launched  on  his  confession  he 
spoke  rapidly. 

"Well,  I  was  saying  that  the  old  bodices  were  a 
more  civilized  article  of  apparel  than  the  modern  sub 
stitute  for  them,  madam.  Don't  you  agree  with  me?" 

"I  don't  think  it  an  important  question,  Mr. 
Justice,"  Helen  returned,  without  coquetry,  yet  in  a 
tone  that  implied  appreciation  of  the  pleasantry  sug 
gested  by  the  comparison. 

"I  trust  you  don't  think  it  an  impertinent  one?" 
The  courtly  old  Kentuckian  was  on  his  feet  imme 
diately  with  a  gesture  of  deference  both  to  Helen 
and  Viola  that  would  have  disarmed  any  inclination 
to  criticism. 

"  Oh  no,"  Helen  hastened  to  assure  him. 

"But  be  seated,  please,"  the  Justice  urged  Viola, 
who  was  still  standing  by  her  uncle.  "  I  am  really 
delighted  that  you  called—delighted."  The  old  man 
beamed. 

"Even  at  such  an  hour?"  Helen  ventured. 

"At  any  hour."  The  tender  sincerity  of  his  voice 
was  unmistakable.  "Margaret  Price  was  a  very  dear 

168 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

friend  of  mine.  And  to  think  you  are  her  daughter!'* 
Prentice  took  the  autograph  -  book  from  the  table 
again,  scanning  the  note  which  more  than  filled  the 
first  page  of  the  paper.  "And  this  letter — 1860! 
What's  this?"  He  had  turned  a  leaf. 

"Oh,  don't  touch  that!"  Helen  exclaimed,  half  ris 
ing  as  she  did  so;  "it  will  break.  It's  only  a  dry 
spray  of  mignonette  pinned  to  the  note  when  you 
sent  it." 

"A  spray  of  mignonette,"  Prentice  repeated,  mus 
ingly.  He  half  lifted  the  volume  of  Bret  Harte  from 
which  he  had  read  to  Justice  Henderson  earlier  in  the 
evening. 

"It  was  my  mother's  favorite  flower  and  perfume," 
Helen  explained. 

"I  remember."  The  Justice's  expression  relaxed 
in  baffled  weariness.  He  turned  to  Brookfield.  "  Well, 
well,  this  is  equally  astonishing!" 

"Do  you  remember  the  letter?"  Jack  asked  him. 

"Perfectly." 

"  And  the  circumstance  it  alludes  to  ?"  Brookfield's 
voice  almost  shook  with  eagerness. 

"  Yes,"  Prentice,  answered  simply ;  "  it  was  the  work 
of  a  romantic  boy. ' '  Turning  to  Helen,  he  said :  "  I — I 
was  very  fond  of  your  mother,  Mrs. — "  He  paused 
in  an  attempt  to  recall  her  name;  then  remembering 
that  he  had  not  heard  it,  said,  pleasantly,  "  By-the- 
way,  you  haven't  told  me  your  name." 

"Never  mind  that  now,"  Helen  begged;  "let  me  be 
Margaret  Price's  daughter  for  the  present." 

"Very  well,"  Prentice  agreed.  He  returned  to  the 
subject  of  the  letter,  addressing  all  three  of  his  visi- 

169 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR 

tors.    "This  was  a  little  scratch  of  a  duel — they've 
gone  out  of  fashion  now,  I'm  thankful  to  say." 

"Do  you  remember  the  cause  of  this  one?"  Helen 
asked. 

"Yes.  Henry  Boland  had  worried  Margaret  some 
way.  She  was  frightened,  I  think,  and  fainted." 

"And  you  struck  him?" 

"Yes,  and  he  challenged  me." 

"  I've  heard  mother  tell  it.  Do  you  remember  what 
frightened  her?" 

"  I  don't  believe  I  do — does  the  letter  say  ?"  Again 
the  Justice  turned  to  the  book. 

"No,"  said  Helen,  evidently  anxious  to  distract  his 
attention  from  the  book.  "Try  to  think." 

"Was  it  a  snake  or  a  toad?"  the  Justice  pondered. 

"No— a  jewel." 

"A  jewel?  I  remember  now — a  cat's-eye — a  cat's- 
eye  jewel,  wasn't  it?" 

"Yes,  yes,  yes."  Helen  covered  her  eyes  with  her 
handkerchief  and  bowed  her  head  upon  the  table. 

Viola  came  to  her  side  in  a  surge  of  sympathy  and 
laid  her  hand  gently  on  Helen's  shoulder. 

Justice  Prentice  was  at  a  loss  to  understand  the 
cause  of  her  sudden  tears.  Had  he  inadvertently 
touched  some  ancient  wound? 

"  My  dear  madam,  it  seems  to  be  a  very  emotional 
subject  with  you,"  he  said,  tentatively. 

"It  is."  Helen  raised  her  wet  eyes  to  his  face.  "I've 
hoped  so  you  would  remember  it.  On  the  cars  I  was 
praying  all  the  way  that  you  would  remember  it, 
and  you  do — you  do."  Helen  leaned  over  the  table 
pleading,  eager,  straining  for  his  answer. 

170 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"I  do — yes,"  he  assured  her. 

"  Compose  yourself,  dear,"  Viola  whispered  to  Helen, 
her  arms  about  her;  "remember  what  depends  on  it." 

"  It  is  evidently  something  in  which  I  can  aid  you," 
Prentice  said,  gently. 

"It  is.     And  you  will?" 

"There  is  nothing  I  would  not  do  for  a  daughter  of 
Margaret  Price.  You  are  in  mourning,  dear  lady; 
is  it  for—?" 

"For  my  son." 

The  Justice  turned  apologetically  to  Jack,  as  if  he 
would  spare  her. 

"How  long  has  he  been  dead?" 

"He  is  not  dead,  Justice  Prentice!"  Helen  cried, 
her  voice  rising  with  emotion.  "  My  boy,  the  grandson 
of  Margaret  Price,  is  under  sentence  of  death."  She 
rose  from  her  chair. 

"Sentence  of  death!"  In  a  moment  Justice  Pren 
tice  had  recovered  the  judicial  mantle  of  his  office  and 
was  on  guard. 

"Yes;  I  am  the  mother  of  Clay  Whipple — " 

"But,   madam—" 

"  He  is  to  die.     I  come — " 

"Stop!"  Prentice  commanded,  sternly.  "You  forget 
yourself."  He  retreated  with  great  gravity  toward 
the  door  of  his  private  apartment.  "The  case  of 
Whipple  is  before  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United 
States.  I  am  a  member  of  that  body — I  cannot 
listen  to  you." 

"You  must."     Helen  followed  him. 

"You  are  prejudicing  his  chances,"  Prentice  went 
on,  imperatively  rather  than  in  explanation;  "you 
xa  171 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

are  making  it  necessary  for  me  to  rule  against  him." 
And  then  in  a  tone  of  more  human  appeal :  "  My  dear 
madam,  for  the  sake  of  your  boy,  do  not  do  this.  It  is 
unlawful — without  dignity  or  precedent."  He  turned 
upon  Brookfield,  whom  he  evidently  held  responsible 
for  this  painful  interview.  "  If  the  lady  were  not  the 
mother  of  the  boy,  I  should  call  your  conduct  base." 

"But  she  is  his  mother,"  Viola  interjected. 

"And,  Justice  Prentice,  I  am  the  daughter  of  the 
woman  you  loved,"  Helen  said. 

"I  beg  you  to  be  silent."  The  Justice  put  his 
hand  on  the  door-knob. 

"Won't  you  hear  us  for  a  moment?"  Jack  tempo 
rized,  feeling  that  the  opportunity  they  had  counted 
on  so  much  was  slipping  from  them. 

"I  cannot — I  dare  not.     I  must  leave  you." 

"Why?"     The  question  came  from  Viola. 

"I  have  explained,"  the  Justice  hurried  on,  in  his 
indignation;  "the  matter  is  before  the  Court — for  me 
to  hear  you  would  be  corrupt." 

"I  won't  talk  of  the  question  before  your  Court." 
Helen's  intuition  seized  the  one  possible  plea  for  a 
hearing.  "That,  our  attorneys  tell  us,  is  a  constitu 
tional  point." 

"That  is  its  attitude." 

"  I  will  not  talk  of  that.  I  wish  to  speak  of  this 
letter." 

"You  can  listen  to  that,  can't  you,  Mr.  Justice?" 
Jack  pleaded. 

Prentice  paused  and  surveyed  his  visitors:  Brook- 
field,  manly,  straightforward,  sincere ;  Viola,  trembling 
ly  expectant  and  suppliant;  Helen,  in  an  anguish  of 

172 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

suspense,  her  frightened  face  so  wonderfully  like  one 
he  remembered. 

"Do  you  hope  for  its  influence  indirectly?"  he 
asked,  coming  back  into  the  room. 

"  No.  Sit  down,  Justice  Prentice,  and  listen  to  me. 
I  will  talk  calmly  to  you."  Helen  resumed  her  place 
at  the  table ;  Viola  joined  her,  standing  with  her  arms 
about  her — the  two  women  making  a  picture  that 
moved  the  old  Justice  more  than  he  would  have  cared 
to  confess. 

"My  dear  madam,"  he  said,  "my  heart  bleeds  for 
you."  Then  to  Brookfield :  "  Her  agony  must  be  past 
judicial  measurement." 

"Only  God  knows,  sir." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  before  Helen  again 
turned  to  the  Justice. 

"  You  remember  this  letter,  Mr.  Justice — you  have 
recalled  the  duel?" 

Prentice  bowed. 

"You  remember,  thank  God,  its  cause." 

"I  do." 

"You  know  that  my  mother's  aversion  to  that 
jewel  amounted  almost  to  an  insanity?" 

"I  remember  that." 

"I  inherited  that  aversion.  As  a  child  the  sight 
of  one  of  them  would  throw  me  almost  into  con 
vulsions." 

"Is  it  possible?" 

"  It  is  true.  The  physicians  said  I  would  outgrow 
the  susceptibility,  and  in  a  measure  I  did.  But  I  dis 
covered  that  Clay  had  inherited  the  fatal  fear  from 
me." 


THE   WITCHING  HOUR 

"You  can  understand  that,  Mr.  Justice,"  Brook- 
field  declared,  anxiously. 

"Medical  jurisprudence  is  full  of  such  cases.  Why 
should  we  deny  them?  Is  nature  faithful  only  in 
physical  matters  ?  You  are  like  this  portrait.  Your 
voice  is  that  of  Margaret  Price.  Nature's  behest 
should  have  embraced  also  some  of  the  less  apparent 
possessions,  I  think." 

"We  urged  all  that  at  the  trial,"  Jack  submitted, 
"but  they  called  it  invention." 

"Nothing  seems  more  probable  to  me." 

"Thank  you,"  Helen  said,  in  deepest  gratitude, 
hard  put  to  it  to  restrain  her  tears  of  relief.  "  Well, 
as  I  was  saying,  Clay,  my  boy,  had  that  dreadful  and 
unreasonable  fear  of  the  jewel.  I  protected  him  as 
far  as  possible.  But  one  night  a  year  ago  some  men, 
companions,  finding  that  the  sight  of  this  stone  an 
noyed  him,  pressed  it  upon  his  attention.  He  didn't 
know,  Mr.  Justice,  he  was  not  responsible."  Helen's 
fingers  locked  and  unlocked  in  her  agony.  "It  was 
insanity;  but  he  struck  his  tormentor,  and  the  blow 
resulted  in  the  young  man's  death."  Unconsciously 
she  rose  and  extended  her  hands  in  dramatic  appeal 
to  the  Justice. 

"Terrible — terrible!"  he  whispered,  painfully  atten 
tive. 

"My  poor  boy  is  crushed  by  the  awful  deed.  He 
is  not  a  murderer — he  was  never  that — but  they  have 
sentenced  him,  Mr.  Justice;  he  is  to  die."  Helen's 
rising  tone  ended  in  one  heart-broken  sob.  She  stag 
gered  toward  the  Justice,  who  had  himself  risen  from 
his  chair,  drawn  by  an  involuntary  impulse  to  her 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

aid,  but  Brookfield  was  before  him  and  took  her  in 
his  arms. 

"Helen,  dear — Helen" — Brookfield  sought  to  com 
fort  her — "  remember  how  much  depends  on  you — try 
to  compose  yourself." 

"You  promised,"  Viola  reminded  her. 

Helen  became  conscious  of  the  voice  of  Justice 
Prentice  speaking  in  judicial  tones  to  Jack,  and  of 
Jack's  rejoinders. 

"All  this  was  ably  presented  to  the  trial  Court, 
you  say?" 

"By  the  best  attorneys." 

"And  the  verdict?" 

"Still  was  guilty.  But,  Mr.  Justice,  the  sentiment 
of  the  community  has  changed  very  much  since  then. 
We  feel  that  a  new  trial  would  result  differently." 

The  mention  of  a  new  trial  reminded  Helen  of  her 
own  part — she  heard  her  own  voice  speaking  to  the 
Justice. 

"When  our  lawyers  decided  to  go  to  the  Supreme 
Court,  I  remembered  some  letter  of  yours  in  this  old 
book.  Can  you  imagine  my  joy  when  I  found  the 
letter  was  on  the  very  point  of  this  inherited  trait  on 
which  we  rested  our  defence?" 

"We  have  ridden  twenty-four  hours  to  reach  you," 
Jack  said.  "The  train  came  in  only  at  ten  o'clock." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Justice,  you  are  not  powerless  to  help 
me!"  Helen  was  alive  with  new  hope  and  joy — the 
man  into  whose  deep  eyes  she  looked  was  responding 
to  her  appeal.  "What  is  an  official  duty  to  a  moth 
er's  love,  to  the  life  of  my  boy?" 

"  My  dear,  dear  madam,  that  is  not  necessary,  be- 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

lieve  me.  This  letter  comes  very  properly  under  the 
head  of  new  evidence."  In  the  most  matter-of-fact 
manner  of  which  he  was  at  the  moment  capable, 
Prentice  turned  to  Brookfield.  "The  defendant  is 
entitled  to  a  rehearing  on  that." 

"  Mr.  Justice — Mr.  Justice!"  Helen  exclaimed,  almost 
beside  herself  with  joy. 

"There — there."  Again  Viola's  arms  were  about 
her. 

"Of  course  that  isn't  before  us,"  Prentice  ex 
plained,  ' '  but  when  we  remand  the  case  on  this  con 
stitutional  point — " 

"Then  you  will — you  will  remand  it!"  cried  Helen. 

"Justice  Henderson  had  convinced  me  on  that 
point  to-night,  so  I  think  there  is  no  doubt  of  the 
decision." 

"You  can  never  know  the  light  you  let  into  my 
heart." 

Viola  returned  to  her  the  handkerchief  which  had 
marked  the  page  in  the  autograph-book.  Helen  closed 
the  book  with  the  handkerchief  in  its  place. 

"What  is  that  perfume?"  Prentice  asked,  as  she 
did  so.  "Have  you  one  about  you?" 

"Yes,  on  this  handkerchief." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Mignonette." 

"Mignonette?" 

"A  favorite  perfume  of  my  mother's.  This  hand 
kerchief  of  hers  was  in  the  book  with  the  letter." 

"Indeed!"  Prentice  inhaled  slowly.  His  eyes  were 
moist,  and  in  them  there  was  a  haunted  look  of  ten 
der  memory. 

176 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"Oh,  Mr.  Justice,  do  you  think  I  can  save  my 
boy?" 

Prentice  turned  to  Brookfield. 

"On  the  rehearing  I  will  take  pleasure  in  testify 
ing  myself  as  to  this  hereditary  aversion  and  what  I 
knew  of  its  existence  in  Margaret  Price." 

"May  I  tell  the  lawyers  so?"  Jack  asked,  eagerly. 

"No.  They  will  learn  it  in  the  court  to-morrow — 
they  can  stand  the  suspense.  I  am  speaking  comfort 
to  the  mother's  heart." 

"Comfort!"  echoed  Helen;   "it  is  life." 

"Say  nothing  of  this  call,  if  you  please — nothing  to 
any  one." 

"We  shall  respect  your  instructions,  Mr.  Justice," 
Brookfield  answered  for  all;  and  then  explained:  "My 
niece,  who  has  been  with  Mrs.  Whipple  during  this 
trouble,  is  the  fiance'e  of  her  son  —  the  boy  lying  in 
jail." 

Prentice  took  Viola's  hand  in  both  his  own.  "You 
have  my  sympathy,  too,  my  dear." 

"Thank  you." 

"And  now,  good-night." 

"Good-night."  Viola  joined  her  uncle  Jack  at  the 
door;  both  turned,  waiting  for  Helen. 

"Good-night,  Justice  Prentice,"  she  was  saying. 
"You  must  know  my  gratitude — words  cannot  tell  it." 

"Would  you  do  me  a  favor?"  he  said. 

"Can  you  ask  it?" 

"If  that  was  the  handkerchief  of  Margaret  Price, 
I'd  like  to  have  it." 

Helen  lifted  the  folded  square  of  antique  lace  from 
the  book;  she  put  it  in  the  extended  hand  of  Pren- 

177 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

tice.  Some  expression  of  gratitude  formed  in  her 
mind;  some  allusion  to  the  handkerchief  as  a  me 
mento;  some  thought  of  the  mother  who  had  owned 
it,  but  no  words  would  come.  There  are  seas  upon 
which  we  do  not  venture  small  boats,  there  are  emo 
tions  in  which  language  cannot  live.  Helen  turned 
to  Brookfield  and  Viola,  and  went  from  the  room 
without  looking  back. 

The  Justice,  left  alone,  stood  for  a  moment  looking 
at  the  folded  handkerchief  in  his  hand.  He  spoke 
aloud. 

"Margaret  Price.  .  .  .  People  will  say  that  she  has 
been  in  her  grave  five-and- twenty  years  " — he  picked 
up  the  miniature  from  the  table — "but  I'll  swear  her 
spirit  was  in  this  room  to-night  and  directed  a  de 
cision  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States." 

From  a  distant  belfry  there  came  the  stroke  of  two. 

Prentice  lifted  the  handkerchief  to  his  face — 

"  '  The  delicate  odor  of  mignonette, 

The  ghost  of  a  dead  and  gone  bouquet, 
Is  all  that  tells  of  her  presence — yet 
Could  she  think  of  a  sweeter  way?"-' 


XII 

HPHE  Brookfield  party  returned  to  Louisville, 
1  Helen,  Viola,  and  the  attorneys  greatly  excited: 
Helen  to  a  tearful  degree  of  hope  and  exaltation; 
Viola's  spirit  like  a  pinioned  bird  suddenly  set  free; 
the  attorneys  stimulated  by  their  victory,  and  anx 
ious  to  retrieve  cause  and  reputation  in  a  second  trial ; 
Brookfield  sharing  all  these  emotions,  but  addition 
ally  stirred  to  the  centre  of  his  being  by  his  experi 
ence  in  Prentice's  library  and  the  utterances  of  the 
Justice.  One  comment  in  particular  frequently  re 
curred  : 

"Then  I  should  say,  Mr.  Brookfield,  that  for  you 
the  obligation  of  clean  and  unselfish  thinking  was 
doubly  imperative." 

Brookfield  was  aware  of  the  threatening  paralysis 
of  too  much  self-examination,  aware  also  that  of  late 
he  had  been  dangerously  given  to  an  introspective 
habit.  Yet  he  further  indulged  it  in  the  light  of 
Prentice's  warning,  in  order  to  ascertain  to  his  moral 
satisfaction  the  character  of  his  thinking.  Was  it 
clean?  Was  it  sufficiently  unselfish? 

And  that  sudden  cure  of  his  headache?  Reports 
and  pretended  records  of  all  demonstrations  of  that 
kind  had  found  no  receptive  faith  in  him.  What  ex 
plained  it? 

179 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

That  he  could  question  a  negro  boy  whose  objective 
faculties  were  inhibited  by  hypnosis  and  get  from 
that  boy  a  reading  of  another  person's  thoughts  he 
had  demonstrated  to  himself  and  to  a  scientific  ad 
viser.  That'  the  subjective  mind  of  the  negro  boy 
was  in  communication  directly  and  indirectly  with 
other  minds,  through  channels  of  affinity  previously 
and  variously  established,  was  probable.  For  similar 
phenomena  such  was  the  scientific  explanation  by 
the  most  advanced  students  of  the  subject.  Brook- 
field  himself  was  prepared  to  believe  that  an  individ 
ual  subjective  mind  set  free  from  its  objective  cus 
todian  by  hypnosis  was  in  flowing  communication 
with  the  common  subjective  mind  of  humanity.  But 
to  explain  or  even  grant  the  purposive  projection  of 
a  thought  puzzled  him.  It  was  easy  for  him,  at  this 
stage  of  his  special  education,  to  admit  that  Prentice's 
author  friend  had  read  the  thought  of  the  Justice,  in 
which  was  held  a  picture  of  the  author  going  to  his 
telephone ;  easy  to  understand  that  such  reading  had 
suggested  the  action  to  an  inert  sleeper;  but  that  a 
thought  could  be  projected  and  be  a  compelling  order 
was  more  than  startling — it  was  intellectually  revolu 
tionary. 

Yet  there  was  the  fact  of  his  own  headache  being 
banished  at  command!  What  accomplished  that,  if 
it  was  not  a  projected  force?  Yet  if  a  force,  what 
was  the  means  of  its  communication  ?  For  Brookfield 
could  imagine  no  force  transmitted  except  through 
a  material  vehicle  or  medium.  But  assume  a  medium ; 
assume  the  medium  to  be  the  ether — that  predicated, 
interplanetary,  intermolecular,  all  -  penetrating  sub- 

180 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

stance.  Assume  that  medium,  or  suppose  still  an 
other  and  finer  ether,  devoted  to  the  transmission  of 
thought  alone.  What  stirs  its  atoms?  What  agi 
tates  and  propels  them  in  seeming  currents  or  direc 
tions  ? 

Brookfield  related  the  headache  incident  to  Dr. 
Monroe.  That  gentleman  said:  "A  cure  by  sugges 
tion."  But  this  explanation  Brookfield  refused.  He 
admitted  a  degree  of  susceptibility  to  suggestion  in 
every  person,  but  susceptibility  permitting  an  in 
stantaneous  cure  of  a  headache  would  be  most  ab 
normal.  He  also  combated  the  implication  of  hyp 
nosis  which  Monroe  offered  in  his  inquiries  as  to 
whether  the  Justice  had  looked  at  him  steadily  dur 
ing  the  interview,  had  established  any  monotony  of 
tone,  and  the  like. 

Brookfield  had  not  been  hypnotized  into  relief. 
That  explanation  was  untenable. 

The  more  he  considered  it  the  more  convinced  he 
became  that  there  must  exist  a  mental  force  that  is 
dynamic — a  force  that  certain  minds  can  consciously 
direct.  What  was  the  character  of  a  mind  capable 
of  commanding  this  power?  What  was  its  essential 
endowment  ?  What  was  the  needed  degree  of  devel 
opment  ? 

Brookfield  had  never  before  knowingly  met  such 
a  man  as  Prentice.  Could  that  uncanny  power  of  his 
be  cultivated  in  other  men  ?  Imagine  it  in  the  hands 
of  one  vicious  or  criminally  disposed!  Brookfield  felt 
that  he,  like  Hamlet,  could  accuse  himself  of  such 
things  that  "'twere  better  his  mother  had  not  borne 
him" ;  yet  his  own  power  as  a  hypnotist  had  been  cul- 

181 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

tivated  and  perceptibly  increased,  and  at  the  cost  of 
only  a  little  greater  tension,  resulting,  perhaps,  in  a 
trifling  recurrence  of  his  headaches. 

Again  he  recalled  a  remark  by  the  Justice:  "The 
investigation  constantly  opens  new  mental  heights, 
and  every  man  is  ill  in  some  manner  who  lives  habit 
ually  on  a  lower  plane  than  that  of  the  light  he  sees." 

Did  the  answer  to  his  fear  of  the  power  in  improper 
hands  lie  in  that  explanation  of  Prentice's  ?  Did  the 
power  come  only  to  men  who  lived  up  to  their  high 
est  light,  and,  if  once  acquired,  did  it  desert  them 
when  they  willingly  and  habitually  abandoned  their 
standard  ? 

The  thought  of  this  possibility  influenced  Brook- 
field.  He  formed  no  resolutions  as  to  plainer  living, 
or  higher  thinking,  but  the  presence  of  the  idea  itself 
acted  as  a  constant  monitor.  One  by  one  indulgences 
were  foregone ;  unwholesome  topics  were  dismissed  from 
conversation  and  from  mind ;  a  conscious  tonic,  physi 
cal  and  mental  regimen  was  gradually  established. 

One  evening  after  dinner  Brookfield  was  in  the 
library  with  the  ladies.  Viola  and  her  mother  were 
quietly  discussing  some  intricacy  of  knitting;  Helen 
was  endeavoring  to  interest  herself  in  a  magazine. 
Brookfield  sat  in  a  big  sofa  by  the  fireplace.  A  grate 
of  gleaming  anthracite  was  shaping  and  reshaping 
faces  in  its  bed,  as  it  always  did  for  him.  He  had  an 
impulse  to  call  Helen's  attention  to  these  pictures,  and 
he  foresaw  with  unusual  distinctness,  even  for  him,  the 
position  he  would  like  her  to  take  beside  him  on  the 
sofa — leaning  forward  as  he  pointed  out  the  faces  in 
the  coals,  one  elbow  on  her  knee,  her  chin  in  the 

182 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

supporting  hand.  At  that  moment  Helen  laid  the 
magazine  she  had  been  reading  on  the  table,  came 
over  to  his  side,  and  assumed  the  position  he  had 
mentally  seen  her  take. 

"What  are  you  looking  at,  Jack?" 

Her  very  words  stepped  Indian  fashion  into  the 
mental  footprints  of  his  thoughts. 

Brookfield  answered  her,  tracing  the  wavering  forms 
in  the  fire,  and  speaking  in  an  easy  and  natural  under 
tone;  but  his  thoughts  were  busy  with  the  strange 
coincidence  that  had  just  occurred.  That  there  was 
any  dynamic  force  in  his  own  thinking,  nothing  as  yet 
demonstrated.  The  events  of  the  last  few  moments, 
however,  were  suggestive  of  experiment. 

"Would  it  astonish  you,  Helen,  if  Viola  were  to  put 
down  her  work  and  come  over  here  ?"  Brookfield  asked, 
in  a  voice  audible  to  Helen  only. 

"No.     Would  it  astonish  you ?" 

"  Suppose  that,  instead  of  perching  on  the  arm  of  the 
sofa  beside  you,  which  would  be  the  girlish  and  natural 
thing  to  do,  she  came  behind  us  both ;  that  she  then 
put  her  right  hand  over  your  shoulder  and  her  left 
hand  on  my  head — would  that  astonish  you?" 

"  If  you  tell  me  she  is  going  to  do  it,  the  accuracy 
of  your  prevision  would  astonish  me." 

"I  think  she's  going  to  do  it." 

"I  think  she  isn't,"  Helen  bantered. 

"But  that  isn't  the  game,"  Jack  explained;  "you, 
too,  must  dramatize  her  doing  it."  And  again  he 
described  the  action. 

Helen  felt  an  uncanny  creeping  of  the  flesh  as  Viola, 
before  Jack  had  ceased  speaking,  laid  aside  her  needla- 

183 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

work  and  rose  to  her  feet.  The  girl  looked  around 
uncertainly,  crossed  the  room,  and  stood  behind  the 
sofa. 

"Am  I  interrupting?"  she  asked. 

"Not  at  all,  my  dear,"  Helen  answered. 

Viola  put  her  right  arm  about  Helen's  neck.  There 
was  a  moment's  pause ;  then  she  lifted  her  left  hand 
and  caressingly  stroked  her  uncle's  head. 

Helen  gasped,  and  was  about  to  exclaim,  when 
Jack,  with  finger  on  his  lips,  objured  her  to  silence. 

The  second  trial  of  Clay  Whipple  began  under  more 
intelligent  direction  for  the  defence  than  the  first  trial 
had  displayed,  although  conducted  by  the  same  at 
torneys.  A  sustained  endeavor  was  made  to  secure 
a  jury  of  men  of  sufficient  imagination,  if  not  of  suf 
ficient  information,  to  conceive  the  possibility  of  trans 
mitting  a  mental  idiosyncrasy  from  one  generation  to 
another. 

Hardmuth,  because  of  his  full  knowledge  of  the 
case,  had  been  specially  appointed  in  charge  for  the 
State.  His  attempts  to  get  an  unsympathetic  and 
matter-of-fact  jury  were  as  persistent  as  the  efforts 
to  the  contrary  of  the  defence.  The  result  was  the 
selection  of  twelve  men  not  all  of  whom  were  satis 
factory  to  either  side,  and  from  whom  the  defence 
anticipated  at  best  but  a  disagreement. 

The  greater  publicity  that  the  elapsed  interval  had 
contributed  to  the  case,  together  with  the  closer  at 
tention  that  both  sides  had  given  to  the  selection  of 
the  jury,  had  prolonged  that  part  of  the  proceedings. 
The  days  so  occupied  were  not  altogether  unhappy 

184 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

ones  for  the  women  who  loved  the  defendant.  They 
were  with  him  now  in  surroundings  less  depressing 
than  those  in  the  jail.  They  were  in  the  presence  and 
in  the  company  of  men  of  intelligence,  the  majority 
of  whom  were  sympathizers,  and  the  strongest  and 
best  of  whom  were  advocates  of  their  cause. 

Moreover,  the  mere  machinery  of  the  law  no  longer 
terrified  the  women  related  to  the  prisoner.  Their 
interest,  of  course,  made  them  unreliable  judges  of 
the  value  of  any  bit  of  testimony;  their  fears  ex 
aggerated  the  menace;  their  sympathies  distorted 
favorable  utterances ;  but  they  had  a  consoling  realiza 
tion  that  much  of  the  proceedings  was  in  their  favor. 
The  presence  of  a  Justice  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the 
United  States  among  the  witnesses  for  the  defence 
gave  dignity  to  that  side,  and  at  once  lifted  its  princi 
pal  from  the  condition  and  color  of  a  malefactor  at 
bay,  endeavoring  to  escape  the  just  penalty  of  the 
law,  to  the  position  of  an  unfortunate  prisoner  pre 
sumably  innocent  and  whom  to  prove  guilty  was  the 
task  of  the  State. 

That  portion  of  the  South  that  lies  east  of  the 
Mississippi  has  a  reverence  for  lineage  that  is  un 
known  elsewhere  in  America,  with  perhaps  the  ex 
ception  of  Boston.  Through  the  other  fields  of  the 
nation  the  current  of  life  has  flowed  with  a  swiftness 
and  a  freedom  that  have  made  attention  to  pedigree 
a  retarding  and  unprofitable  digression  from  the  gen 
eral  progress.  In  Dixie  and  in  Boston,  however,  the 
movement  has  been  rotary  rather  than  progressive. 
In  the  Southland  especially  it  is  impossible  to  be  wide 
ly  introduced  without  meeting  somebody  cousin  to 

185 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

the  sponsor.  Family  connection  is  a  weighty  consid 
eration.  Parents  of  distinction  are  computable  assets 
even  when  dead.  Notable  grandparents  compound 
in  value  of  almost  geometrical  increase.  That  the 
prisoner's  maternal  grandmother  had  been  a  sweet 
heart  of  a  man  since  advanced  to  the  supreme  bench 
was  a  recommendation  of  considerable  import  to  sev 
eral  members  of  the  jury.  That  his  singular  aver 
sion  to  the  cat's-eye  had  been  also  hers,  and  that  the 
grave  and  dignified  and  distinguished  legal  gentle 
man  before  them  had  fought  a  duel  shielding  that 
sensitiveness  in  a  lady  from  a  rude  and  stupid  ap 
proach  not  unlike  that  from  which  the  prisoner  had 
defended  himself,  was  of  tremendous  weight. 

Hardmuth  brought  all  his  batteries  to  bear  upon  this 
witness.  He  put  into  play  every  art  and  trick  and 
resource  that  his  intelligence  and  his  experience  had 
developed,  and  his  efforts  were  not  entirely  ineffectual 
with  the  jury. 

During  this  second  trial,  except  when  testifying  or 
advising  with  the  attorneys,  Brookfield  was  notice 
able  for  his  absence  from  the  court-room.  There 
were  those  who  attributed  this  to  his  possible  belief 
that  the  friendship  of  an  ex-gambler  would  not  be 
helpful  to  the  accused.  Had  this  been  Brookfield's 
opinion  it  would  not  have  been  well  founded.  As 
a  gambler  his  reputation  had  been  that  of  a  square 
one,  and  in  all  contests,  whether  in  sporting,  financial, 
or  political  circles,  Jack  Brookfield  was  known  as  a 
consistent  advocate  of  fair  play.  Furthermore,  in  the 
year  and  a  quarter  that  had  passed  since  the  killing 
of  Denning,  Brookfield  had  taken  an  increasing  inter- 

186 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

est  in  politics.  His  wide  acquaintance,  his  personal 
magnetism,  and  his  ample  means  had  made  of  him  a 
factor  of  influence  and  consequent  power.  There  was 
more  than  one  man  on  the  jury  to  whom  the  friend 
ship  of  Brookfield  might  be  valuable. 

Brookfield's  absence  from  the  court-room  was  due 
to  an  incident  of  which  he  had  made  no  report  to  any 
one.  Near  the  finish  of  his  own  testimony  he  had 
chanced  to  glance  along  the  double  row  of  faces  in  the 
jury-box.  The  glance  had  been  casual  enough  in  the 
beginning,  but  as  it  encountered  the  gaze  of  one  of 
the  men  Brookfield  had  felt  an  involuntary  arrest  of 
his  attention.  A  like  happening  has  come  to  every 
one  at  some  time.  Eyes  confront  eyes  with  inex 
plicable  recognition — the  vis-b-vis  is  a  stranger,  and 
there  is  on  either  side  no  question  of  that  fact,  yet 
the  gaze  of  both  halts  in  the  passing  with  silent  salute 
or  challenge.  Each  look  says:  "Well,  what  is  it  you 
wish  of  me?"  Though  Brookfield  held  the  gaze  of 
the  juror  for  less  than  a  second,  he  felt  that  if  pro 
longed  the  interchange  would  develop  into  one  of 
those  optical  duels  that  end  in  self-consciousness  and 
sometimes  irritation  and  anger.  There  was  a  slight 
show  of  color  in  the  temples  of  the  other  man  before 
Brookfield,  tactful  as  he  was,  could  move  on  with  his 
glance,  accepting  for  himself  the  part  of  retreat.  In 
a  later  survey  of  the  men  he  was  careful  so  to  time 
and  distribute  his  regard  that  this  particular  juror 
should  not  feel  any  exception  in  his  case.  Yet,  im 
partial  as  was  the  disposition  of  time,  there  was  a 
quality  in  this  man's  look  that  made  Brookfield  aware 
that  their  minds  as  well  as  their  eyes  had  met. 
13  187 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

When  Brookfield  left  the  court-room,  as  he  did  soon 
after,  he  refrained  from  looking  back  at  the  jury.  He 
was  conscious,  through  some  subtle  sense,  that  the 
man  was  again  looking  at  him,  and  he  preferred 
that  no  spectator  should  note  a  second  exchange  of 
glances  between  the  juror  and  himself. 

In  consequence  of  this  incident  Brookfield  was 
away  from  the  court-room  during  the  period  of  Pren 
tice's  examination,  although  he  would  have  liked 
to  hear  the  old  Justice  testify  and  to  see  the  effect 
of  his  testimony.  Prentice  and  Brookfield  had  been 
in  each  other's  company  the  greater  part  of  the  time 
since  the  Justice  had  arrived  in  Louisville  on  his  pres 
ent  mission.  They  had  talked  much  of  the  case,  and 
Prentice's  opinions,  as  Brookfield  had  reported  them 
to  Clay's  counsel,  had  affected  to  some  extent  the  con 
duct  of  the  case. 

When,  in  turn,  his  examination  was  finished,  Pren 
tice  came  at  once  to  Brookfield.  He  was  not  in 
clined  to  minimize  the  value  to  the  defence  of  the 
appearance  of  a  man  of  his  position,  but  he  reported 
a  disturbing  estimate  of  the  counteracting  influence 
of  Hardmuth.  There  was,  in  his  opinion,  among  the 
counsel  for  Whipple  no  such  dominating  mind  as 
Hardmuth's — no  man  so  capable  of  influencing  other 
men  by  his  mere  personality,  independently  of  his 
contentions.  As  one  of  wide  experience  in  trial  pro 
cedure  and  long  practice  in  reading  human  nature, 
Justice  Prentice  was  fearful  of  the  verdict.  He  feared 
Hardmuth's  effect  upon  the  jury  when  he  should 
come  to  his  argument.  Furthermore,  there  was  added 
to  Hardmuth's  personal  strength  the  momentum  of 

1 88 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

an  increasing  position  in  the  public  opinion;  he  was 
realizing  Brookfield's  predictions  of  success  in  politics. 
He  was  not  only  a  district  attorney  by  appointment, 
but  he  was  the  man  most  generally  discussed  as  his 
party's  nomination  for  governor.  A  murder  trial  is 
a  contest  in  which  every  factor  weighs,  and  none  more 
than  the  importance  of  attorneys. 

The  Justice's  fears  quickly  communicated  them 
selves  to  Brookfield.  If  these  various  considerations 
in  Hardmuth's  personal  favor,  as  well  as  the  facts  in 
the  case  itself,  were  to  weigh  with  the  jury,  it  was 
plainly  Brookfield's  duty  to  reduce  Hardmuth's  popu 
larity  at  any  cost. 

Clay's  life  was  at  stake. 

"I've  tried  to  fight  in  the  open,  Mr.  Justice,  and  to 
stoop  to  nothing  for  which  any  of  us  might  be  ashamed 
hereafter,  or  I  could  have  crushed  that  fellow  Hard- 
muth  ere  this,"  Jack  said. 

"Crushed  him?" 

"As  easily  as  you'd  crush  a  beetle  by  treading 
on  it." 

"But  if,  as  you  say,  the  means  were  unfair — " 

"Only  as  telling  on  a  fellow  is  unfair  when  you 
know  something  that's  against  him." 

"Something  told  you  in  confidence?" 

"Not  by  him.  Yes,  sir — it  would  have  crushed 
Hardmuth  if  I'd  printed  what  I  know  of  him,  and  as 
a  citizen  I  believe  I  owe  it  to  the  public  to  tell  it.  I'm 
sorry  I  have  put  it  off  until  too  late." 

"Is  it  too  late,  Mr.  Brookfield?  He  hasn't  begun 
his  concluding  speech.  What  is  the  nature  of  your 
charge  against  him?" 

189 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

Brookfield  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  It  may  be  a  kindness  to  you,  Mr.  Justice,  to  leave 
you  entirely  out  of  this.  Did  you  come  back  in  the 
automobile  ?" 

"Yes;  it's  at  the  door." 

"I'm  going  to  be  rude  enough  to  ask  you  to  find 
your  own  way  to  your  hotel." 

"  No  rudeness  whatever,  Mr.  Brookfield.  I  see  that 
your  time  is  valuable." 

Brookfield  ran  hurriedly  down-stairs,  taking  from 
the  rack  as  he  passed  it  his  overcoat  and  hat.  As  he 
slammed  the  door  of  the  limousine,  he  said  to  the 
chauffeur : 

' '  The  Courier- Journal  /' ' 


XIII 

TT  was  night.  Brookfield  sat  alone  in  his  library 
1  deeply  enveloped  in  thought.  The  only  illumina 
tion  in  the  room  was  from  the  fireplace  and  a  small 
lamp  on  one  of  the  side -tables.  The  old  darky, 
Uncle  Harvey,  entered  apologetically. 

"Marse  Jack?" 

"  Well,  Uncle  Harvey  ?"    Brookfield  looked  at  him. 

"  'Scuse  me,  suh,  when  you  wants  to  be  alone,  but 
I'se  awful  anxious  myself.  Is  dey  any  word  from 
the  co't-house?" 

"None,  Uncle  Harvey." 

"'Cause  Jo  said  Missus  Campbell  had  done  come 
in,  an'  I  thought  she'd  been  to  the  trial,  you  know." 

"  She  has."  An  earnestness  came  into  Brookfield's 
manner.  "You're  not  keeping  anything  from  me, 
Uncle  Harvey?" 

"'Deed  no,  suh.  An'  I  jes'  like  to  ask  you,  Marse 
Jack,  if  I'd  better  have  de  cook  fix  sompun  to  eat — 
maybe  de  other  ladies  comin',  too?" 

"Yes,  Uncle  Harvey;  but  whether  they'll  want  to 
eat  or  not  will  depend  on  what  word  comes  back  from 
that  jury." 

"Yes,  suh." 

Uncle  Harvey  left  Brookfield  moodily  pacing  the 
floor.  The  report  of  his  sister's  return  and  her  fail- 

191 


THE  WITCHING   HOUR 

ure  to  come  to  him  were  disturbing.  He  had  about 
determined  to  go  in  search  of  her  when  Mrs.  Campbell 
entered  the  room. 

"Jack!"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  mingled  astonish 
ment  and  reproof. 

"Well?" 

"Why  are  you  here?" 

"  Well "— Brookfield  hesitated—"  I  live  here."  Full 
seriousness  was  wellnigh  impossible  to  Jack  in  most 
conversations  with  his  sister. 

"But  I  thought  you'd  gone  to  Helen  and  Viola," 
Mrs.  Campbell  rebuked  him. 

"No." 

"You  should  do  so.  Think  of  them  alone  when 
that  jury  returns,  as  it  may  at  any  moment,  with 
its  verdict." 

"The  lawyers  are  there,  and  Lew  Ellinger  is  with 
them." 

"  But  Helen — Helen  needs  you." 

"  I  may  be  useful  here." 

"How?" 

"There's  one  man  on  that  jury  that  I  think  is  a 
friend." 

"One  man?" 

"Yes." 

"  Out  of  a  jury  of  twelve." 

"One  man  can  stop  the  other  eleven  from  bring 
ing  in  an  adverse  verdict,  and  this  one  is  with 
us." 

"Would  your  going  to  Helen  'and  Viola  in  the 
court-house  stop  his  being  with  us?"  The  tone  was 
a  trifle  acrimonious. 

192 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"Perhaps  not,"  Jack  answered,  tranquilly,  "but  it 
would  stop  my  being  with  him." 

"What!"  Mrs,  Campbell  looked  about  the  room  in 
a  possible  search  for  the  juror.  "  I  don't  understand 
you." 

"Justice  Prentice  told  me,"  Jack  explained,  im 
pressively,  "that  he  could  sit  in  his  room  and  make 
another  man  get  up  and  walk  to  the  telephone  and 
call  him  by  simply  thinking  steadily  of  that  other 
man." 

"Superstitious  people  imagine  anything,"  Mrs. 
Campbell  commented,  scoffingly. 

"Imagine  much — yes;  but  this  isn't  imagination." 

"It's  worse,  Jack;  I  call  it  spiritualism."  It  would 
be  difficult  to  get  more  disapproval  into  a  single 
speech  than  Mrs.  Campbell's  tone  and  manner  crowd 
ed  into  this. 

"  Call  it  anything  you  like,"  Jack  answered,  placidly: 
"  spiritualism  or  socialism  or  rheumatism — it's  there. 
I  know  nothing  about  it  scientifically,  but  I've  tried 
it  on  and  it  works,  my  dear  Alice — it  works." 

"You've  tried  it  on?" 

"Yes." 

"With  whom?" 

"With  you."  Jack  sat  —  Mrs.  Campbell  gasped. 
Some  unwarrantable  liberty  had  been  taken  with  her 
personal  rights.  The  pause  that  followed  her  gasp 
was  ineffective  because  her  attention  was  divided  be 
tween  inquiry  and  inventory.  Curiosity  triumphed 
as  she  said,  interrogatively: 

"  I  don't  know  it  if  you  have  ?" 

"  That  is  one  phase  of  its  terrible  subtlety." 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR 

"When  did  you  try  it  on?" 

"That  night  a  month  ago  when  you  rapped  at  my 
door  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  and  asked  if  I  was 
ill  in  any  way?" 

"  I  was  simply  nervous  about  you,"  Mrs.  Campbell 
spluttered,  defensively. 

"Call  it  'nervousness'  if  you  wish  to,  but  that  was 
an  experiment  of  mine — a  simple  experiment." 

"Oh!"  Indignation  and  incredulity  commingled 
in  the  single  note. 

"Two  Sundays  ago,"  Brookfield  continued,  "you 
went  right  up  to  the  church  door,  hesitated,  and 
turned  home  again." 

"  Lots  of  people  do  that — " 

"  I  don't  ask  you  to  take  stock  in  it,  but  that  was 
another  experiment  of  mine.  The  thing  appeals  to 
me.  I  can't  help  Helen  by  being  at  the  court-house, 
but,  as  I'm  alive  [and  my  name's  Jack  Brookfield,  I 
do  believe  that  my  thought  reaches  that  particular 
juryman." 

"  That's  lunacy,  Jack,  dear."  Mrs.  Campbell  began 
commiserating  her  brother. 

"Well,  call  it  'lunacy' — I  don't  insist  on  rheuma 
tism." 

"  Oh,  Jack,  the  boy's  life  is  in  the  balance.  Bitter, 
vindictive  lawyers  are  prosecuting  him,  and  I  don't 
like  my  big,  strong  brother,  who  used  to  meet  men  and 
all  danger  face  to  face,  treating  the  situation  with 
silly  mind-cure  methods  hidden  alone  in  his  rooms." 
Mrs.  Campbell,  with  an  embracing  gesture,  made  an 
exhibit  of  Brookfield  and  his  surroundings.  "  I  don't 
like  it!" 

194 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"You  can't  acquit  a  boy  of  murder  by  having  a 
strong  brother  thrash  somebody  in  the  court-room. 
If  there  was  anything  under  the  sun  I  could  do  with 
my  physical  strength  I'd  do  it,  but  there  isn't.  Now, 
why  not,  if  I  believe  I  can  influence  a  juryman  by  my 
thought — why  not  try?" 

His  sister  turned  from  him  with  a  sigh  of  hopeless 
ness  as  Jo  entered  from  the  hallway.  Jo's  manner 
was  agitated. 

"Well?"  Brookfield  inquired,  sharply. 

"Mistah  Hardmuth." 

"Frank  Hardmuth!"  Mrs.  Campbell  exclaimed,  in 
her  astonishment. 

"Yes'm,"  Jo  assented. 

"Here's  one  of  the  'bitter,  vindictive'  men  you 
want  me  to  meet  face  to  face.  Now,  my  dear  Alice, 
you  stay  here  while  I  go  and  do  it." 

Mrs.  Campbell's  protest  was  prevented  by  the 
abrupt  entrance  of  Hardmuth. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  shouted,  "but  I  can't  wait  in  an 
anteroom!" 

"  That  will  do,  Jo,"  Brookfield  said  to  the  boy. 

"I  want  to  see  you  alone,"  Hardmuth  continued, 
threateningly.  His  nod  toward  Mrs.  Campbell  con 
veyed  his  objection  to  her  presence. 

"Yes,"  Brookfield  replied  to  the  unspoken  ques 
tion  of  his  sister.  He  led  her  tenderly  toward  the 
door. 

"  What  do  you  think  it  is  ?"  she  gasped,  in  suppressed 
anxiety. 

"  Nothing  to  worry  over,"  Brookfield  answered,  re 
assuringly,  as  she  left  the  room. 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"Jack  Brookfield — "  Hardmuth  began. 

"Well?" 

"  I've  just  seen  Harvey  Fisher,  of  the  Courier. ,n 

"Yes?" 

"He  says  you've  hinted  at  something  associating 
me  with  the  shooting  of  Scovil." 

"Right!" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Hardmuth 's  angry  explo 
sion  carried  all  the  threat  that  was  possible. 

"  I  mean,  Frank  Hardmuth,"  Jack  answered,  in  that 
deliberate  calm  which  most  of  his  masculine  acquaint 
ances  had  come  to  correctly  estimate — "  I  mean  that 
you  sha'n't  hound  this  boy  to  the  gallows  without 
reckoning  with  me  and  the  things  I  know  of  you." 

"I'm  doing  my  duty  as  a  prosecuting  attorney." 

"You  are,"  interrupted  Brookfield,  "and  a  great 
deal  more — you're  venting  a  personal  hatred." 

"That  hasn't  anything  to  do  with  this  insinuation 
that  you've  handed  to  a  newspaper  man,  an  insinu 
ation  for  which  anybody  ought  to  kill  you." 

"I  don't  deal  in  'insinuations/     It  was  a  charge." 

"A  statement?" 

"A  charge!  You  understand  English  —  a  specific 
and  categorical  charge."  Brookfield's  tone  was  rising. 

"That  I  knew  Scovil  was  to  be  shot?" 

"  That  you  knew  it  ?  No !"  The  voice  was  rasping 
with  contempt.  "That  you  planned  it  and  arranged 
it  and  procured  his  assassination." 

The  courage  and  character  of  Brookfield's  answer 
benumbed  Hardmuth  for  the  moment.  When  he 
spoke  at  last  the  words  came  slowly  and  quietly,  and 
rang  with  vibrant  passion. 

196 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"  If  the  newspapers  print  that,  I'll  kill  you,  damn 
you — I'll  kill  you!"  The  finish  of  the  threat  was  in  a 
whisper.  Hardmuth's  clinched  fist  shook  in  Brook- 
field's  face. 

"  I  don't  doubt  your  willingness,"  came  the  metallic 
reply;  "  and  they  will  print  it,  if  they  haven't  done  so 
already." 

Tlje  insult  implied  in  Hardmuth's  belief  that  to 
threaten  his  life  would  compel  him  to  retract  what  he 
had  said  stung  Brookfield  like  a  blow  on  the  cheek. 
His  splendid  self-control  deserted  him  for  the  moment 
just  long  enough  to  lend  increasing  power  to  the 
rest  of  his  reply. 

"And  if  they  don't  print  it — by  God,  I'll  print  it 
myself  and  paste  it  on  the  fences!" 

Hardmuth's  nerve  was  shaken. 

"What  have  I  ever  done  to  you,  Jack  Brookfield, 
except  to  be  your  friend  ?"  he  almost  whined. 

"  You've  been  much  too  friendly.  With  this  mur 
der  on  your  conscience  you  proposed  to  take  to  your 
self  as  wife  my  niece,  dear  to  me  as  my  life.  As  re 
venge  for  her  refusal  and  mine,  you've  persecuted 
through  two  trials  the  boy  she  loves  and  the  son  of 
the  woman  whose  thought  regulates  the  pulse  of  my 
heart — an  innocent,  unfortunate  boy.  In  your  am 
bition  you've  reached  out  to  be  the  governor  of  this 
State,  and  an  honored  political  party  is  seriously  con 
sidering  you  for  that  office  to-day." 

"That  Scovil  story  is  a  lie,  a  political  lie!  I  think 
you  mean  to  be  honest,  Jack  Brookfield,  but  some 
body's  strung  you."  Hardmuth  turned  away. 

"  Wait,"  Brookfield  commanded.  "  The  man  that's 

197 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

now  hiding  in  Indiana,  a  fugitive  from  your  feeble 
efforts  at  extradition,  sat  up-stairs  drunk  and  des 
perate,  his  last  dollar  on  a  case  card.  I  pitied  him. 
If  a  priest  had  been  there  he  couldn't  have  purged  his 
soul  cleaner  than  poor  Raynor  gave  it  to  me.  If  he 
put  me  on,  am  I  strung?" 

"Yes,  you  are,"  Hardmuth  blustered.  "I  can't 
tell  you  why,  because  this  jury  is  out  and  may  come 
in  any  moment,  and  I've  got  to  be  there.  But  I  can 
square  it — so  help  me  God,  I  can  square  it!" 

"You'll  have  to  square  it." 

Mrs.  Campbell  came  in  just  then,  and  behind  her 
Justice  Prentice,  a  folded  newspaper  in  one  hand. 

"Excuse  me."  Prentice  apologized  for  the  ab 
ruptness  of  his  entrance. 

Hardmuth  bowed  to  him  respectfully.  "Oh,  Jus 
tice  Prentice!" 

There  was  a  moment's  awkward  hesitation  before 
Brookfield  said,  with  some  conciliation: 

"The  State's  attorney— Mr.  Hardmuth." 

"I  recognize  Mr.  Hardmuth,"  Prentice  answered, 
with  dignity.  "I  don't  salute  him  because  I  resent 
his  disrespectful  treatment  of  myself  during  his  cross- 
examination." 

"Entirely  within  my  rights  as  a  lawyer,  and — " 

"  Entirely,"  Prentice  interrupted ;  "  and  never  within 
the  opportunities  of  a  gentleman." 

"Your  side  foresaw  the  powerful  effect  on  a  local 
jury  of  any  testimony  by  a  member  of  the  Supreme 
Court,  and  my  wish  to  break  that — ' 

"Was  quite  apparent,  sir,  quite  apparent,"  Pren 
tice  answered.  "  But  the  testimony  of  every  man  is 

198 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR 

entitled  to  just  such  weight  and  consideration  as  that 
man's  character  commends.  But  it  is  not  that  dis 
respect  which  I  resent.  I  am  an  old  man;  that  I 
am  unmarried,  childless,  without  a  son  to  inherit  the 
vigor  that  time  has  reclaimed,  is  due  to  a  sentiment 
that  you  endeavored  to  ridicule,  Mr.  Hardmuth — a 
sentiment  which  would  have  been  sacred  in  the  hands 
of  any  true  Kentuckian,  which  I  am  glad  to  hear  you 
are  not." 

As  Hardmuth  began  a  reply,  Brookfield  interposed: 
"That's  all!" 

"Perhaps  not,"  the  prosecutor  said,  threateningly, 
as  he  left  the  room. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Brookfield,"  Prentice  hastened  to 
say  as  soon  as  they  were  freed  from  Hardmuth's 
presence,  "  that  man  certainly  hasn't  seen  this  news 
paper?" 

"No,  but  he  knows  it's  coming." 

"  When  I  urged  you  as  a  citizen  to  tell  anything  you 
knew  of  the  man,  I  hadn't  expected  a  capital  charge." 

"What  is  it,  Jack?"  Mrs.  Campbell  asked,  in  alarm. 
"What  have  you  said?" 

"All  in  the  head-lines,"  Jack  explained,  quietly; 
"read  it."  He  handed  the  paper  to  his  sister,  and 
turned  again  to  the  Justice  with  the  question: 

"Is  that  enough  for  your  purpose,  Mr.  Justice?" 

"Why,  I  never  dreamed  of  an  attack  of  that  mag 
nitude.  Enough!" 

Mrs.  Campbell  exclaimed  in  an  agony  of  alarm: 

"Why— why  did  you  do  this,  Jack?" 

"  Because  I'm  your  big,  strong  brother — and  I  had 
the  information." 

199 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR 

"It  was  necessary,  Mrs.  Campbell — necessary," 
Prentice  added,  also  assuming  Brookfield's  calm. 

"Why  necessary?" 

"My  poor  sister,  you  don't  think.  If  that  jury 
brings  in  a  verdict  of  guilty,  what  then?" 

"What  then?     I  don't  know—" 

"An  appeal  to  the  Governor  for  clemency." 

"Well?"  Mrs.  Campbell  prompted. 

"This  Governor  may  not  grant  it,"  Prentice  ex 
plained. 

"Well?" 

"Then  we  delay  things  until  a  new  governor  comes 
in,"  Jack  answered.  "  But  suppose  that  new  gov 
ernor  is  Hardmuth  himself?" 

"How  can  the  new  governor  be  Hardmuth?" 

"Nothing  can  stop  it  if  he  gets  the  nomination," 
the  Justice  replied,  "and  the  convention  is  in  session 
at  Frankfort  to-day,  with  Mr.  Hardmuth's  name  in 
the  lead." 

"I've  served  that  notice  on  them  " — Brookfield  in 
dicated  the  paper  — "  and  they  won't  dare  nominate 
him — that  is,  I  think  they  won't." 

"But  to  charge  him  with  murder!"  Mrs.  Campbell 
protested. 

"The  only  thing  to  consider  there,"  Prentice  said 
to  Brookfield,  "is  have  you  your  facts?" 

"I  have." 

"  Then  it  was  a  duty,  and  you  chose  the  psycholog 
ical  moment  for  its  performance.  '  With  what  meas 
ure  you  mete,  it  shall  be  measured  to  you  again."' 
The  Justice  turned  to  his  agitated  hostess.  "  I  have 
pity  for  the  man  whom  that  paper  crushes,  but  I 

200 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

have  greater  pity  for  the  boy  he  is  trying  to  have 
hanged.  You  know,  Mrs.  Campbell,  that  young 
Whipple  is  the  grandson  of  an  old  friend  of  mine." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Justice,  I  know  that."  Mrs.  Campbell's 
answer  unconsciously  fell  into  the  tender  tone  of  the 
Justice. 

Jo's  hurried  entrance  and  his  cry,  "Marse  Jack!" 
startled  the  occupants  of  the  room.  Mrs.  Campbell, 
womanlike,  feared  the  return  of  Hardmuth;  Jack 
thought  some  bad  news  had  come  from  the  trial. 
The  appearance  of  Helen  and  Viola,  who  followed  Jo, 
did  not  momentarily  dissipate  this  belief. 

"Oh,  Jack!"  Helen  exclaimed.  She  staggered,  and 
only  Jack's  arms  prevented  her  from  falling. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

Viola,  who  was  holding  the  hand  of  her  mother, 
answered:  "The  jury  returned  and  asked  for  instruc 
tions." 

"Well?" 

"There's  a  recess  for  an  hour,"  Helen  found  voice 
to  say.  She  looked  toward  Viola,  who  continued  the 
explanation. 

"The  Court  wished  them  locked  up  for  the  night, 
but  the  foreman  said  the  jurymen  were  all  anxious 
to  get  to  their  homes,  and  that  he  felt  an  agreement 
could  be  reached  in  an  hour." 

The  reassuring  voice  of  Prentice  broke  in  upon 
their  mental  turmoil.  "Did  he  use  exactly  those 
words — 'to  their  homes'?" 

"'To  their  homes'— yes." 

"There  you  are,"  Prentice  smiled  to  Jack. 

"What  is  it,  Jack?"  Helen  inquired,  looking  into 

201 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

Brookfield's  face  for  the  answer.  Brookfield,  per« 
plexed,  shook  his  head  and  turned  to  the  Justice. 

"Men  with  vengeance  or  severity  in  their  hearts," 
the  old  jurist  commented,  "would  hardly  say  they 
were  anxious  to  get  to  their  homes.  They  say,  in  that 
case,  the  jury  is  anxious  to  get  away,  or  to  finish  its 
work." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Justice,  you  pin  hope  upon  such  slight 
things!"  Helen  sank  into  a  chair.  Prentice  put  one 
hand  over  hers  in  his  paternal  manner. 

"That  is  what  hope  is  for,  my  dear  Mrs.  Whipple — 
the  frail  chances  of  this  life." 

Viola,  who  had  gone  to  Helen's  side,  turned  to 
Brookfield.  "And  now,  Uncle  Jack,  Mrs.  Whipple 
ought  to  have  a  cup  of  tea  and  something  to  eat." 

"Oh,  I  couldn't,"  Helen  pleaded;  "we  must  go 
back  at  once." 

"Well,  I  could.  I — I  must,"  the  young  girl  said 
to  the  group. 

"Yes,  you  must  —  both  of  you,"  Mrs.  Campbell 
urged. 

Helen  shook  her  head,  again  refusing,  at  which 
Viola  asked :  "  You  don't  think  it's  heartless,  do  you  ?" 

"You  dear  child!"  Helen  put  her  arms  about  the 
girl  whose  sympathy  and  companionship  had  been 
the  most  unwavering  element  in  her  own  strength  for 
more  than  a  year.  She  kissed  her  tenderly  and  gave 
her  to  Mrs.  Campbell,  who  led  her  from  the  library 
and  into  the  dining-room,  where  Uncle  Harvey  had 
arranged  refreshments. 

"And  now  courage,  my  dear  Helen,"  Jack  com 
forted;  "it's  almost  over." 

202 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"  Oh,  Jack,  at  the  other  trial  the  jury  delayed  just 
this  way!" 

"Upon  what  point,  Mrs.  Whipple,  did  the  jury  ask 
instructions?"  Prentice  inquired. 

"Degree." 

"And  the  Court?" 

"Oh,  Jack,"  Helen  said,  in  returning  terror,  to 
Brookfield,  "the  Judge  answered:  'Guilty  in  the  first 
degree  or  not  guilty." 

"That  all  helps  us,"  Prentice  said. 

"It  does?" 

Helen's  answer  from  the  Justice  was  a  nod  and  one 
of  his  confident  and  reposeful  smiles. 

"Who  spoke  for  the  jury?"  Brookfield  inquired. 

"The  foreman,  and  one  other  juryman  asked  a 
question." 

"Was  it  the  man  in  the  fourth  chair,  first  row?" 

"Yes,"  Helen  replied. 

Jack  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"Why?"  pursued  Helen. 

"  I  think  he's  a  friend,  that's  all."  But  there  was 
something  in  the  calm  of  Brookfield's  manner  imply 
ing  more  than  his  words  expressed.  There  was  also 
a  significant  interchange  of  looks  between  the  old 
Justice  and  himself. 

"Oh,  Jack,"  Helen  said,  helplessly,  "I  should  die 
if  it  weren't  for  your  courage!"  She  rose  from  the 
sofa  where  she  had  half  fallen  when  Viola  left  her  and 
came  toward  Jack.  Brookfield  took  both  her  out 
stretched  hands.  "You  won't  get  tired  of  it,"  she 
pleaded,  "  will  you,  and  forsake  my  poor  boy  and  me  ?" 

"What  do  you  think?" 
14  203 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"All  our  lawyers  are  kindness  itself;  but  you,  Jack 
— you  somehow — " 

Viola  returned  from  the  dining-room,  holding  in  her 
hand  a  crumpled  note  of  blue  paper. 

"  Oh,  Uncle  Jack,  here's  a  note  our  lawyer  asked 
me  to  give  to  you!  I  forgot  it  until  this  minute." 

"Thank  you."     Jack  took  the  note. 

"Please  try  a  cup  of  tea,"  Viola  urged;  but  Helen 
absent-mindedly  pushed  the  girl  away,  her  own  at 
tention  anxiously  riveted  on  Brookfield,  who  was 
reading  the  note  under  the  hooded  electrolier  which 
he  had  turned  on  for  the  purpose.  Viola  returned  to 
her  mother  in  the  dining-room.  Brookfield  finished 
the  note,  and  handed  it  significantly  to  Prentice. 

"What  is  it,  Jack?"  Helen  asked.  "Are  they 
afraid?" 

"  It's  not  about  the  trial  at  all." 

"Really?" 

"Yes." 

"Why  don't  you  show  it  to  me,  then?" 

"  I  will — if  my  keeping  it  gives  you  so  much  alarm 
as  that." 

Jack  took  the  note  from  the  Justice,  who  had  read 
it,  and  turned  to  Helen.  "Colonel  Bailey  says: 

" '  DEAR  JACK, — I've  seen  the  paper.  Hardmuth  will  shoot 
on  sight."! 

"Oh,  Jack — if  anything  should  happen  to  you!" 
"Anything  is  quite  as  likely  to  happen  to  Mr. 
Hardmuth."     Jack  took  both  her  hands  in  the  cover 
ing,  protective  manner  that  had  become  habitual  with 
him  toward  Helen  since  the  tragedy. 

204 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"But  not  even  that.  My  boy  has  killed  a  man, 
and  you,  Jack — you — well,  you  just  mustn't  let  it 
happen — that's  all." 

The  appeal  in  her  trembling  whisper,  the  moisture 
in  her  eyes  as  she  looked  up  at  him,  was  the  most 
satisfying  answer  that  Brookfield  had  had  during  all 
these  months  to  his  question  asked  on  the  night  of 
the  opera — asked  in  the  same  room,  and  beside  the 
table  where  they  were  now  standing. 

"  I  mustn't  let  it  happen  because — ?"  Jack  waited. 

"Because — I — couldn't  bear  it." 

Jack  bent  over  one  of  the  hands  he  was  holding  and 
kissed  it. 


XIV 

HPHE  old  Justice  was  scanning  the  titles  of  the 
1   Editions  de  luxe  in  their  glass  cases.     Mrs.  Camp 
bell,  with  characteristic  matter-of-fact  ness,  bustled  in 
from  the  dining-room. 

"What  was  the  letter,  Jack?" 

Brookfield,  still  holding  Helen's  hand,  led  her  tow 
ard  the  dining-room.  He  mechanically  handed  the 
lawyer's  note  to  his  sister  as  he  passed  her,  saying 
to  Helen:  "And  now  I'll  agree  to  do  the  best  I  can 
for  Mr.  Hardmuth  if  you'll  take  a  cup  of  tea  and  a 
biscuit." 

"There  isn't  time,"  Helen  protested. 

"  There's  plenty  of  time  if  the  adjournment  was  for 
an  hour." 

"Jack!"  Mrs.  Campbell  cried,  explosively,  the  blue 
letter  fluttering  at  arm's-length. 

Brookfield  turned,  startled  at  the  suddenness  of  the 
outcry,  and,  divining  its  cause,  he  implored:  "Just 
one  minute."  Then  gently  yet  firmly  said  to  Helen: 
"Go,  please." 

Helen  joined  Viola  in  the  dining-room. 

"  He  threatens  your  life!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Campbell, 
interpreting  the  letter  for  him. 

"  Not  exactly,"  Brookfield  answered;  "  simply  Colo 
nel  Bailey's  opinion  that  he  will  shoot  on  sight." 

206 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"  Oh — "  Mrs.  Campbell  stamped  her  foot  and  turn 
ed  impatiently  to  the  Justice  for  understanding  and 
appreciation. 

"There  is  a  difference,  you  know,"  Brookfield  con 
tinued,  "my  dear  sister — " 

The  entrance  of  Jo  interrupted  him. 

"Well?" 

"Mr.  Ellinger,  suh." 

Lew  came  briskly  into  the  room,  in  his  hand  a  news 
paper  open  and  displayed. 

"Hello,  Jack!" 

"Well,  Lew!" 

"  Why,  that's  the  damnedest  thing — "  Then,  as  he 
saw  Mrs.  Campbell,  Lew  apologized.  "I  beg  your 
pardon." 

"Don't,  please,"  the  lady  answered:  "some  manly 
emphasis  is  a  real  comfort,  Mr.  Ellinger." 

Lew  bustled  busily  over  to  Brookfield. 

"That  charge  of  yours  against  Hardmuth  is  raisin' 
more  he — he — high  feelin'  than  anything  that  ever 
happened!" 

"I  saw  the  paper." 

"  You  didn't  see  this — it's  an  extra."  And  Lew  be 
gan  to  read,  standing  under  the  electrolier  that  Brook- 
field  had  turned  on  for  Colonel  Bailey's  letter.  He 
read,  following  the  thrilling  head-lines  with  his  fore 
finger,  and  looking  over  his  glasses  into  Jack's  face  as 
he  pointed  to  the  more  sensational  lines: " '  The  Charge 
Read  to  the  Convention  in  Night  Session  at  Frankfort 
— Bill  Glover  Hits  Jim  Macey  on  the  Nose — Devoe,  of 
Carter  County,  Takes  Jim's  Gun  Away  from  Him — The 
Delegation  from  Butler  Get  Down  on  Their  Stomachs 

207 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR 

and  Crawl  Under  the  Benches — Some  Statesmen  Go 
Through  the  Windows — Convention  Takes  Recess  Till 
Morning — Local  Sheriff  Swearin'  in  Deputies  to  Keep 
Peace  in  the  Bar-rooms.'"  Lew  let  the  paper  fall  to 
his  side  and  said,  ominously,  to  Jack:  "That's  all 
you've  done." 

"Good,"  said  Brookfield;  and  then,  with  a  note  of 
triumph,  he  added:  "They  can't  nominate  Mr.  Hard- 
muth  now." 

Lew  turned  to  Mrs.  Campbell.  "I've  been  hedgin' 
— I  told  the  fellows  I'd  bet  Jack  hadn't  said  it." 

"Yes,  I  did  say  it,"  corrected  Jack. 

"In  just  those  words?"  Lew  again  spread  the 
paper  under  the  electric  light  and  read:  "'The  poor 
fellow  who  crouched  back  of  a  window-sill  and  shot 
Kentucky's  governor-elect  deserves  hanging  less  than 
the  man  whom  he  is  shielding — the  man  who  laid  the 
plot  of  assassination,  the  present  prosecuting  attorney 
by  appointment — Frank  Allison  Hardmuth. '  Did  you 
say  that?" 

"  Lew,  that  there  might  be  no  mistake,  I  wrote  it!" 
And  Brookfield  brought  his  hand  down  with  emphasis 
upon  Lew's  shoulder.  Ellinger  emitted  a  long  whistle 
of  prophetic  consternation.  Brookfield  turned  off  the 
electrolier,  and  the  light  in  the  room  fell  to  its  usual 
volume. 

When  Ellinger  could  pull  himself  together  after 
his  astonishment  he  inquired : 

"Is  it  straight?" 

"Yes." 

"  He  was  in  the  plot  to  kill  the  governor-elect  ?" 

"He  organized  it." 

208 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that?"  Lew  asked  of 
the  surrounding  atmosphere.  "  And  now  he's  running 
for  governor  himself — a  murderer!" 

"Yes." 

"And  for  six  months  he's  been  houndin'  every 
fellow  in  Louisville  that  sat  down  to  a  game  of  cards!" 
Lew  crossed  to  the  Justice  and  in  a  confidential  under 
tone  complained:  "The  damned  rascal's  nearly  put 
me  in  the  poor-house." 

"Poor  old  Lew,"  Jack  laughed. 

"  Why,  before  I  could  go  to  that  court-house  to-day," 
Ellinger  continued,  "I  had  to  take  a  pair  of  scissors 
that  I  used  to  cut  coupons  with  and  trim  the  whiskers 
off  my  shirt-cuffs."  The  deep  indignity  of  this  ca 
lamity  as  he  recalled  it  turned  the  old  sport  toward 
Brookfield  with  something  of  resentment.  "  How  long 
have  you  known  this?" 

"Ever  since  the  fact." 

"Why  do  you  spring  it  only  now?" 

"Because  until  now  I  lacked  the  character  and 
moral  courage.  I  'spring  it'  now  by  the  advice  of 
Justice  Prentice,  to  reach  that  convention  at  Frank 
fort." 

"Well,  you  reached  them." 

"The  convention  was  only  a  secondary  consid 
eration  with  me,"  Justice  Prentice  said;  "my  real 
objective  was  this  jury  with  whom  Mr.  Hardmuth 
seemed  so  powerful." 

"Reach  the  jury?"  Lew  asked,  not  believing  that 
he  had  heard  correctly. 

"The  jury!"  Jack  exclaimed,  in  a  burst  of  en 
thusiasm.  Suddenly  he  grasped  the  significance  of 

209 


THE   WITCHING  HOUR 

the  fact  in  the  light  of  his  new  philosophy.  "Why, 
of  course — the  entire  jury;  and  I  was  hoping — hoping 
for  one  man — why,  Alice — " 

"Why,  they  don't  see  the  papers,"  Lew  interrupt 
ed;  "the  jury  won't  get  a  line  of  this." 

"I  think  they  will." 

"You  got  'em  fixed?" 

"Fixed?  No!"  Brookfield  resented  the  question 
as  positively  as  he  denied  the  fact. 

"Then  how  will  they  see  it?" 

"How  many  people  in  Louisville  have  already 
read  that  charge  as  you  have  read  it?"  Prentice 
asked. 

"Thirty  thousand,  maybe,  but — " 

"And  five  hundred  thousand  in  the  little  cities  and 
the  towns.  Do  you  think,  Mr.  Ellinger,  that  all  those 
minds  can  be  at  white-heat  over  that  knowledge,  and 
none  of  it  reach  the  thought  of  those  twelve  men? 
Ah,  no." 

"To  half  a  million  good  Kentuckians  to-night 
Frank  Hardmuth  is  a  detestable  thing,"  Jack  con 
tinued,  in  the  same  strain,  "and  that  jury's  faith  in 
him  is  dead." 

Ellinger  blinked  in  helpless  confusion.  He  tried  to 
grasp  the  idea,  but  all  he  could  say  was:  "Why,  Jack, 
old  man,  you're  dippy!" 

"Then,  Mr.  Ellinger,  I  am  '  dippy '  too,"  the  Justice 
tice  added. 

"Why,  do  you  think  the  jury  gets  the  public  opin 
ion  without  anybody  tellin'  them  or  their  reading  it  ?" 
Lew  asked,  impatiently. 

"Yes.  In  every  widely  discussed  trial  the  defend- 

210 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

ant  is  tried  not  alone  by  his  twelve  peers,  but  by  the 
entire  community." 

"Why,  blast  it,  the  community  goes  by  what  the 
newspapers  say!"  Lew's  good-nature  was  almost  ex 
hausted. 

"That  is  often  the  regrettable  part  of  it,"  Prentice 
admitted,  "but  the  fact  remains." 

Brookfield  stood  silent  in  rapt  admiration  of  the 
method  of  the  Justice.  If  there  was  a  uniform  law, 
and  he  believed  that  he  had  demonstrated  its  exist 
ence,  by  which  the  active  and  aggressive  thinking  of 
one  mind  could  affect  another,  and  if  the  intensity 
of  this  effect  increased  as  the  battery  of  minds  was 
strengthened  by  additional  numbers,  Brookfield  be 
lieved  that  at  the  instigation  of  Prentice  he  had  in 
voked  this  law  at  the  most  crucial  moment  of  his 
existence,  and  had  applied  it  in  the  most  direct  way 
possible.  The  value  of  their  act  grew  in  his  estima 
tion  when  he  recalled  his  reading  on  the  psychology 
of  panics,  of  religious  revivals  and  sentimental  cru 
sades  which  move  like  prairie-fires  in  their  rapid  com 
munication  between  the  units  of  a  crowd.  Despite 
the  incredulity  of  Ellinger  and  his  sister,  Brookfield 
felt  an  unbounded  hope  in  the  force  he  had  set  in 
motion,  and  which  at  that  very  moment  was  moving 
with  cumulative  momentum  upon  the  twelve  men 
sitting  in  deliberative  conference  in  the  jury-room  at 
the  court-house.  He  clapped  his  hands,  and  turned  to 
the  Justice  enthusiastically. 

"And  that  is  why  you  asked  me  to  expose  Frank 
Hardmuth?" 

"Yes." 

211 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

Jack  took  Mrs.  Campbell's  arm  and  started  for  the 
dining-room  to  communicate  his  new  hope  to  Helen. 
He  was  arrested  by  Ellinger's  comment: 

"Well,  the  public  will  think  you  did  it  because  he 
closed  your  game." 

"Hardmuth  didn't  close  my  game." 

"Who  did?" 

"This  man."  Jack,  with  deference  and  affection, 
pointed  to  the  Justice. 

Prentice  bowed. 

"Well,  how  the  he — er — Heaven's  name  did  he 
close  it?" 

"He  gave  my  self-respect  a  slap  on  the  back,  Lew, 
and  I  stood  up." 

Brookfield  and  his  sister  left  the  room.  Lew  fol 
lowed  slowly  to  the  doorway,  hoping  for  some  greater 
light  to  be  shed  upon  the  question.  As  illumination 
failed  he  turned  to  the  Justice  and  expressed  his 
mental  condition  in  a  single  favorite  expletive: 

"Stung!" 

The  Justice  was  sufficiently  familiar  with  the  slang 
of  the  period  to  be  amused  by  Lew's  laconic  summary. 
His  smile  gave  Lew  courage  for  some  critical  vent. 

"So  you  are  responsible  for  these  new  ideas  of 
Jack's?" 

"In  a  measure,"  the  Justice  answered,  as  he  took 
a  chair.  ' '  Have  the  ideas  apparently  hurt  Mr.  Brook- 
field?" 

"They've  put  him  out  of  business  —  that's  all." 
Ellinger  endeavored  to  conceal  a  sneer.  •* 

"Which  business?" 

"Why,  this  house  of  his."    Lew's  hands  involun- 

212 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

tarily  trembled  in  the  veriest  descriptive  sketch  of  a 
deal  as  he  nodded  to  the  floor  above,  where  the 
gambling  paraphernalia  had  formerly  been. 

"I  see,"  said  Prentice,  comprehending.  "But  his 
new  ideas — don't  you  like  them,  Mr.  Ellinger?" 

"I  like  Jack  Brookfield,  love  him  like  a  brother, 
but  I  don't  want  even  a  brother  askin'  me  if  I'm  sure 
I've  thought  it  over  when  I  start  in  to  take  the  halter 
off  for  a  pleasant  evening.  You  get  my  idea  ?" 

"I  begin  to,"  Prentice  confessed,  trying  to  hide  his 
amusement. 

"In  other  words,"  continued  Lew,  "I  don't  want 
to  take  my  remorse  first — it  dampens  the  fun.  The 
other  day  a  lady  at  the  races  said,  'We've  missed  you, 
Mr.  Ellinger,'  and  I  said:  'Have  you?  Well,  I'll  be 
up  this  evening.' '  A  smile  came  over  the  old  sport's 
face,  and  a  new  light  crept  into  it  that  explained  to 
Prentice's  quick  comprehension  Lew's  reputed  popu 
larity  and  the  propriety  of  the  ever-present  pink  in 
the  button-hole.  "And  I'm  pressing  her  hand  and 
hanging  onto  it  till  I'm  afraid  I'll  get  the  carriage 
grease  on  my  coat,  feelin'  only  about  thirty- two,  you 
know."  He  didn't  look  much  older  as  he  threw  back 
his  lapels.  "Then  I  turn  round  and  Jack  has  those 
sleepy  lamps  on  me — and  bla!"  Lew  threw  out  his 
hands  and  let  them  fall  inertly.  His  knees  sagged 
under  him,  and  with  one  pirouette  he  sank  into  the 
sofa  like  an  old  fighter  on  the  ropes. 

"And  you  don't  go?"  Prentice  concluded,  when  he 
could  command  his  gravity. 

"I  do  go,  as  a  matter  of  self-respect."  Lew  sat  up, 
full  of  resentful  dignity.  "But  I  don't  make  a  hit. 

213 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

I'm  thinking  so  much  more  about  those  morality 
ideas  of  Jack's  than  I  am  about  the  lady  that  it 
cramps  my  style,  and  we  never  get  past  the  weather 
and  ' When  did  you  hear  from  so  and  so ?'"  Lew  rose 
from  the  sofa,  disgusted  with  the  memory  of  the  in 
effectual  evening  and  the  new  ideas  that  had  made 
it  possible.  "I  want  to  reform,  all  right — I  believe  in 
reform ;  but  first  I  want  to  have  the  fun  of  fallin',  and 
fallin'  hard." 

Jo's  voice  was  heard  in  the  hallway;  it  was  as  full 
of  alarm  as  if  he  had  encountered  a  ghost.  It  rang 
through  the  library  and  echoed  in  the  dining-room, 
where  the  startled  hearers  could  scarcely  believe  the 
import  of  its  cry. 

"'Fore  God,  Marse  Clay!"  And  then  Clay's  voice 
resounded  in  almost  equal  clearness  in  a  hurry  of 
words,  from  the  confusion  of  which  his  mother's  name 
might  be  distinguished.  Mrs.  Campbell  was  the  first 
to  enter  the  library. 

"Why,  that's  Clay!"  she  exclaimed. 

"It's  the  boy!"  announced  Lew. 

"His  mother!"  fearfully  breathed  Mrs.  Campbell. 
She  faltered  in  an  impulse  to  turn  back  toward  Helen, 
but  Clay  was  already  in  the  library  and  in  Mrs.  Camp 
bell's  embrace  as  Prentice  simultaneously  said :  "  Ac 
quittal." 

Brookfield  took  one  step  into  the  dining-room,  and 
was  just  in  time  to  support  Helen. 

"My  boy!"  Helen  cried.  She  tottered  toward 
him. 

Clay  sobbed  "Mother!"  and  sank  to  his  knees,  his 
face  buried  in  her  gown.  The  joy  of  his  release  found 

214 


vent  in  tears  as  there  came  over  him  a  surging  real 
ization  of  the  suffering  he  had  caused. 

Helen  swayed,  and 'would  have  fallen  but  for  Jack's 
strong  arm.  With  a  sharp  grip  of  the  shoulder  he 
said,  in  stimulating  severity: 

"He's  free,  Helen;  he's  free!" 

"Yes,  mother,  I'm  free!"  Clay  rose  to  his  feet, 
his  arms  about  his  mother. 

Helen's  face  sank  on  his  breast.  There  was  a 
hushed  silence,  in  which  the  members  of  the  party 
heard  her  sobbing  whisper:  "My  boy!  my  boy!" 

Jack  left  them  and  crossed  the  room,  greeting 
Colonel  Bailey,  who  had  accompanied  Clay  to  the 
house  and  now  followed  him  into  the  room.  Helen, 
roused  by  the  stir  about  her,  looked  up  and  be 
yond  her  son  to  where  Viola  was  standing  by  Mrs. 
Campbell,  her  fingers  locked  in  a  joy  almost  as  in 
tense  and  inarticulate  as  Helen's.  The  mother  gen 
erously  turned  Clay's  face  and  pointed  to  the  girl. 

"Viola,  my  brave  sweetheart!"  Clay  whispered,  as 
he  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"Is  it  really  over?"  Viola  asked. 

"Yes." 

Jack  was  shaking  Colonel  Bailey's  hand. 

"It's  a  great  victory,  Colonel.  If  ever  a  lawyer 
made  a  good  fight  for  a  man's  life,  you  did.  Helen, 
Viola — you  must  want  to  shake  this  man's  hand." 

Viola,  who  was  nearest,  took  the  hand  of  the  at 
torney  as  she  met  him. 

"I  could  have  thrown  my  arms  around  you  when 
you  made  that  speech." 

The  old  cavalier  shook  his  head  gallantly.  "Too 

215 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR 

many  young  fellows  crowding  into  the  profession  as 
it  is." 

The  lawyer  passed  on  to  Helen,  who  said:  "Life 
must  be  sweet  to  a  man  who  can  do  so  much  good  as 
you  do." 

"I  couldn't  stand  it,  you  know,"  Bailey  bantered, 
defensively,  "if  it  wasn't  that  my  ability  works  both 
ways." 

"  Marse  Clay!"  It  was  the  trembling  voice  of  Uncle 
Harvey,  who,  finding  his  dining-room  deserted,  had 
come  into  the  library. 

"Harvey!    Why,  dear  old  Harvey!" 

Clay  took  him  by  both  hands.  The  old  darky 
proceeded  to  pat  him  on  arms  and  shoulders,  to  be 
doubly  sure  that  the  boy  was  really  back. 

"  Yes,  suh  —  yes,  suh  —  could  you  eat  anything, 
Marse  Clay?" 

"Eat  anything!"  laughed  the  boy.  "Why,  I'm 
starving,  Uncle  Harvey!" 

"  Yes,  suh."  The  old  man  capered  from  the 
room. 

"But  you  come  with  me,"  said  Clay  to  his  mother 
and  Viola. 

"My  boy,  Colonel,"  Helen  apologized,  as  she  left 
the  room  with  Clay,  taking  Viola  with  her. 

Bailey  and  Mrs.  Campbell  followed.  Ellinger,  who 
was  the  last  of  the  procession  to  quit  Brookfield  and 
Prentice,  said,  as  he  left  the  room: 

"Well,  I  don't  believe  I  could  eat  anything — but  I 
suppose  there'll  be  something  else." 

Brookfield  took  from  the  table  the  threatening  let 
ter  of  Hardmuth. 

216 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"Justice  Prentice,"  he  said,  "I  shall  never  doubt 
you  again." 

"Mr.  Brookfield,"  the  Justice  answered,  impressive 
ly,  "never  doubt  yourself." 

Brookfield 's  hand  was  above  his  head  in  touch 
with  the  button  of  the  electrolier.  There  was 
the  sound  of  rushing  footsteps  in  the  hallway. 
Hardmuth,  livid  of  countenance,  dashed  into  the 
room. 

"You  think  you'll  send  me  to  the  gallows;  but, 
damn  you,  you  go  first!" 

Both  hands  were  struggling  to  free  from  his  over 
coat-pocket  a  double-barrelled  derringer  that  had 
caught  in  the  lining.  The  weapon  was  freed;  there 
was  the  double  click  of  the  hammer  as  Hardmuth 
pushed  it  against  Brookfield's  body. 

"Stop!"  As  if  released  by  Brookfield's  word 
the  full  light  of  the  electrolier  fell  into  Hardmuth's 
eyes. 

Behind  Brookfield  one  hand  of  the  old  Justice  point 
ed  at  Hardmuth  in  silent  but  riveting  command. 
Hardmuth's  thought  seemed  to  desert  him.  He  felt 
in  his  face  the  glare  of  the  light;  he  saw  Brook- 
field's  eyes,  like  two  burning  coals  from  which  it 
was  impossible  to  take  his  gaze.  Behind  Brook- 
field,  in  the  circle  of  half-light,  he  felt  rather  than 
saw  the  eyes  of  Prentice.  Through  a  haze  of  con 
sciousness  he  heard  Brookfield's  level  monotone  — 
slow,  compelling: 

"  You  can't  use  that  gun — you  can't  pull  the  trig 
ger — you  can't  even  hold  the  gun!" 

Hardmuth  heard  the  sound  of  the  derringer  as  it 

217 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

dropped  from  his  inert  grasp  and  struck  the  floor. 
And  then  again  the  voice  of  Brookfield : 

"Now,  Frank,  you  may  go." 

Hardmuth  felt  as  one  waking  from  a  dream.  In 
an  awed  and  throaty  whisper  he  said:  "I'd  like  to 
know  how  in  hell  you  did  that  to  me!" 


XV 

"\  \  7  HEN  Hardmuth  reached  the  street  the  newsboys, 
V  V  who  came  as  far  south  as  Brookfield's  only  on 
extraordinary  occasions,  were  crying  the  extras,  with 
the  report  of  Whipple's  acquittal  and  the  discovery  of 
the  Scovil  murderer. 

Hardmuth's  impulse  was  flight. 

He  remembered  that  he  had  often  commented  on 
the  lack  of  intelligence  shown  by  criminals  in  flight. 
It  had  been  easy  to  reconstruct  the  route  of  a  fugitive 
from  the  report  of  his  mistakes  in  the  paper,  or  to 
show  how  he  had  lost  time  that  had  been  fatal  to  him 
by  aimlessly  doubling  on  his  tracks  or  stupidly  hid 
ing  where  his  pursuers  would  most  naturally  search 
for  him. 

His  great  need  consequently,  he  reasoned,  was  for 
a  few  minutes'  calm  reflection:  if  only  he  could  have 
half  an  hour  in  his  own  room  he  was  certain  he  could 
plan  a  means  of  escape  from  the  arrest  that  was  doubt 
less  now  under  way ;  but  he  dared  not  go  to  his  room. 
This  must  have  been  clear  to  his  subconscious  mind 
from  the  first  as  an  instinct  had  guided  his  steps  before 
his  reason  approved  it,  for  he  found  himself  walking 
swiftly  away  from  the  heart  of  the  town.  The  night 
was  bitter  cold;  few  pedestrians  were  out.  Hard 
muth's  direction  would  soon  take  him  from  the  city, 
is  219 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

but  it  would  also  take  him  into  the  State.  His  hope 
lay  in  reaching  Indiana. 

If  he  could  only  get  some  perspective  upon  himself. 
How  would  he  advise  another  in  his  situation  who 
might  come  to  him  for  counsel  ?  As  he  revolved  this 
question  in  his  mind  the  two  voices  of  his  subjective 
and  objective  self  entered  into  debate: 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  Don't  let  this  rattle 
you — brace  up  and  answer  me." 

"Do?  I  don't  know.  What  do  you  advise  me  to  do  ?" 

"Get  under  cover  —  keep  still  for  a  day  or  two. 
Brookfield  has  probably  telephoned  headquarters  be 
fore  this  that  you're  running  away,  and  the  police 
are  watching  every  bridge  and  highway." 

Hardmuth  had  been  walking  south.  He  turned 
east  over  Ormsby  Street  and  into  Bainbridge.  On 
that  side  of  Louisville  there  lies  a  little  chain  of  grave 
yards  (St.  Michael's,  St.  Louis,  and  Cave  Hill),  sepa 
rated  from  one  another  by  only  a  few  blocks.  At  the 
end  of  an  hour's  walk  Hardmuth  was  skirting  the 
outside  of  Cave  Hill  Cemetery,  the  last  of  the  chain, 
and  coming  into  the  district  of  railroad  tracks.  Sud 
denly  he  pulled  up — this  was  commonplace  and  stupid. 
He  was  treading  the  very  ground  where  he  himself, 
in  the  discharge  of  his  duty,  would  have  directed  the 
police  to  search  for  some  besotted  heeler  who  might 
have  killed  his  sweetheart  in  a  drunken  jealousy! 

Could  he,  in  his  emergency,  do  nothing  original? 
Was  there  a  stencil  for  the  plans  of  the  criminal? 
Probably  all  men  tired  and  cold  and  hungry  and 
hunted  were  much  alike. 

He  had  had  no  dinner.  The  day  and  evening  had 

220 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

been  filled  with  exciting  events.  The  reaction  from 
the  rush  of  murderous  fury,  checked  only  at  the  last 
moment  when  about  to  vent  its  hate,  had  left  him 
weary.  Strange  how  Brookfield  did  that!  Some 
unusual  shock — something  he  could  not  account  for 
in  his  experience — had  stayed  his  hand  when  Brook- 
field  turned  on  that  light  and  those  two  pairs  of  glow 
ing  eyes  had  burned  into  his  brain.  He  almost  reeled 
at  the  thought  of  it,  and  his  hand  instinctively  went 
up  to  his  eyes,  as  if  he  would  shut  out  the  sight.  He 
pulled  himself  together  and  laughed  aloud  at  his 
weakness.  At  this  rate  his  strength  and  endurance 
would  soon  run  out,  and  some  patrolman  would  find 
him  on  the  pavement  before  morning.  He  resolved 
to  go  to  one  of  the  cheaper  hotels  near  the  river,  and 
take  the  small  chance  of  recognition.  He  would  have 
food  and  three  or  four  stiff  drinks,  which,  God  knew, 
he  needed.  He  would  have  a  bed  and  a  chance  to 
sleep,  and  sleep  late;  and  then,  if  they  hadn't  found 
him,  he  could  wait  until  night  again,  when  he  might 
look  up  some  friends  whose  interest  it  would  be  to 
assist  him. 

As  he  reached  this  decision  he  found  himself  cross 
ing  Jackson  Street.  This  avenue  was  illuminated  by 
a  string  of  arc-lights  hung  on  a  single  line,  gemlike, 
through  its  entire  length.  Hardmuth  paused.  He 
recognized  the  neighborhood.  At  the  foot  of  this 
street  lived  a  colored  woman  who  had  once  been  a 
servant  in  his  mother's  home;  her  house  would  be 
a  surer  refuge  than  a  hotel;  besides,  she  would  be  a 
safe  messenger  in  communicating  with  his  friends. 
He  turned  north,  and  moved  along  Jackson  Street 

221 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

toward  the  river;  not  another  human  being  was  in 
sight.  The  only  evidence  of  life  was  a  little  light  in 
the  watch  -  tower  of  the  signal  -  man  who  controlled 
the  barriers  guarding  the  railway  crossing.  He  pass 
ed  the  Chesapeake  &  Ohio  big  freight-house,  through 
the  grilled  end  of  which  came  that  damp  odor  of 
traffic  blent  of  sugar,  tobacco,  and  sacked  coffee.  He 
crossed  the  tracks,  and  went  on  through  the  shadows 
of  the  colossal  pipe  and  foundry  company.  One 
block  farther  on  he  paused.  On  his  left  two  mon 
strous  piles — the  city's  gas-tanks — loomed  into  the 
twinkling,  frosty  night.  Against  the  sky-line  to  his 
right,  a  block  or  two  away,  was  silhouetted  the  faint 
tracery  of  the  railway  bridge,  broken  by  the  battery 
of  smoke-stacks  above  a  rambling  foundry.  About 
him  on  the  cinders  and  brick  fill-in  were  old  and 
rusting  boilers,  gigantic  spools  of  unused  cable,  and 
gnarled  and  twisted  heaps  of  iron.  In  their  midst, 
and  from  a  lower  level,  peeped  the  chimney  of  Mandy's 
cottage.  A  little  fence  of  uneven  and  unequal  boards 
made  a  pretence  at  enclosure. 

Through  the  maze  of  rubbish  Hardmuth  groped  his 
way.  He  mounted  the  flight  of  rickety  steps  that 
led  up  over  the  half  story  which  formed  a  basement 
to  the  house  and  rapped  on  the  door.  From  within 
came  a  challenge.  Hardmuth  answered: 

"That  you,  Mandy?  Is  George  there?  Open  the 
door." 

There  was  a  shuffling  of  footsteps,  then  the  strik 
ing  of  a  match;  a  light  shone  through  a  crack  in  the 
weather-warped  panel  of  the  door,  a  hand  fell  on  the 
knob,  a  man's  voice  asked: 

222 


THE   WITCHING  HOUR 

"Who  is  it?" 

"Me,  George  —  Mandy  knows  my  voice  —  put  out 
the  light  before  you  open  the  door." 

The  woman's  voice  was  heard  in  lower  tone: 

"It's  Marse  Frank — blowout  de  light,  like  he  done 
tell  you." 

The  light  went  out;  the  door  opened;  the  prose 
cuting  attorney  disappeared  into  the  shadow,  a  fugi 
tive  from  justice. 

The  evening  after  the  trial  Viola  and  Clay  sat  to 
gether  in  the  library  of  the  Brookfield  house.  It 
had  been  a  day  of  incident  and  excitement. 

"I  must  really  say  good-night  and  let  you  get  some 
sleep,"  Viola  said,  sympathetically. 

"Not  before  Jack  gets  home,"  Clay  pleaded.  "Our 
mothers  have  considerately  left  us  alone  together; 
they'll  just  as  inconsiderately  tell  us  when  it's  time 
to  part." 

"My  mother  said  it  was  time  half  an  hour  ago." 

"Wait  until  Jack  comes  in,"  Clay  coaxed. 

The  young  darky,  Jo,  brought  in  a  card. 

"Dey's  another  reporter  to  see  you,  suh." 

"Send  him  away,"  Viola  directed.  "Mr.  Whipple 
won't  see  any  more  reporters." 

"Wait  a  minute,  "said  Clay.  "Who  is  he?"  Jo  hand 
ed  him  the  card.  "I've  got  to  see  this  one,  Viola." 

"Why  got  to?" 

"He's  a  friend.     I'll  see  him,  Jo." 

"Yes,  suh."     Jo  left  the  room. 

"You've  said  that  all  day — they're  all  friends," 
Viola  remonstrated. 

223 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR 

"Well,  they  are;  but  this  boy  especially.  It  was 
fine  to  see  you  and  mother  and  Jack  when  I  was 
in  that  jail — great;  but  you  were  there  daytimes. 
This  boy  spent  hours  on  the  other  side  of  the  bars 
helping  me  pass  the  awful  nights.  I  tell  you,  death- 
cells  would  be  pretty  nearly  hell  if  it  wasn't  for  the 
police  reporters;  ministers  ain't  in  it  with  'em." 

Jo  ushered  the  reporter  into  the  room. 

"How  are  you,  Ned?"  Clay  took  his  hand,  greet 
ing  him  cordially.  "You  know  Miss  Campbell,  Mr. 
Emmett." 

The  reporter  nodded  affably;  Viola  bowed. 

"Have  a  chair." 

"Thank  you."  Emmett  looked  about  the  warm 
and  luxurious  room.  "This  is  different,  isn't  it?" 

"Some,"  returned  Clay,  in  the  national  habit  of 
understatement. 

"Satisfied  the  way  we  handled  the  story?"  Emmett 
asked,  as  he  took  the  offered  chair. 

"Perfectly;  you  were  just  bully,  old  man." 

"That  artist  of  ours  is  only  a  kid,  and  they  work 
him  to  death  on  the  'Sunday,'"  Emmett  explained 
to  Viola;  "so" — apologetically  to  Clay — "you  under 
stand,  don't  you?" 

"Oh,  I  got  used  to  the  pictures  a  year  ago." 

There  was  an  awkward  pause ;  then  Emmett  coughed 
and  proposed:  "Anything  you  want  to  say?" 

"For  the  paper?"  Viola  asked. 

"Yes." 

"I  think  not,"  Clay  answered. 

Just  then  Helen  and  Alice  came  into  the  room. 

"You  have  met  my  mother?"  said  Clay.  Emmett 

224 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

answered,  "No";  and  Clay  introduced  him,  adding, 
proudly :  "This  is  Mr.  Emmett,  of  whom  I've  told  you." 

"Oh,  the  good  reporter!"  Helen  exclaimed,  appre 
ciatively. 

"Gee!  That  would  be  a  wonder  if  the  gang  heard 
it!"  Emmett  whispered,  laughingly,  to  Clay;  then  in 
assent  to  Helen:  "We  got  pretty  well  acquainted — 
yes'm." 

"Won't  you  sit  down,  Mr.  Emmett?"  Mrs.  Camp 
bell  asked. 

"Thank  you.  I  guess  we've  covered  everything," 
the  reporter  continued,  in  the  business-like  manner  of 
his  profession ;  ' '  but  the  chief  wanted  me  to  see  your 
son" — turning  to  Helen  and  then  to  Clay — "and  see 
if  you'd  do  the  paper  a  favor." 

"If  possible— gladly." 

"I  don't  like  the  assignment  because  —  well,  for 
the  very  reason  that  it  was  handed  to  me,  and  that 
is  because  we're  more  or  less  friendly." 

Brookfield  came  in  briskly  from  the  hall.  He  was 
still  wearing  the  great  fur  coat  he  had  worn  in  the 
automobile,  and  carried  in  his  hand  his  cap  and 
goggles. 

"Well,  it's  a  wonderful  night  outside,"  he  said, 
joyously. 

"You're  back  early,"  his  sister  offered. 

"Purposely.  How  are  you,  Emmett?"  The  re 
porter  bowed.  "I  thought  you  girls  might  like  a 
little  run  in  the  moonlight  before  I  put  up  the  ma 
chine,"  Jack  explained. 

"Mr.  Emmett  has  some  message  from  his  editor," 
Helen  said. 

225 


THE  WITCHING   HOUR 

"What  is  it?" 

"There's  a  warrant  out  for  Hardmuth — you  saw 
that?"  Emmett  asked  of  the  entire  group. 

"Yes,  we  saw  that,"  Viola  said. 

"To-night's  paper,"  Jack  added. 

"If  they  get  him,"  Emmett  continued,  "and  he 
comes  to  trial  and  all  that,  it  will  be  the  biggest  trial 
Kentucky  ever  saw." 

"Well?"  Clay  prompted. 

"  Well,  the  paper  wants  you  to  agree  to  report  it  for 
them — the  trial.  There'll  be  other  papers  after  you, 
of  course." 

"Oh  no!"  Viola  exclaimed,  horrified,  going  in 
stinctively  to  Clay's  side. 

"Understand,  Clay,  I'm  not  asking  it,"  Emmett 
said,  apologetically.  "  I'm  here  under  orders,  just  as 
I'd  be  at  a  fire  or  a  bread  riot." 

"And  of  course" — Clay  hesitated,  searching  for  a 
diplomatic  refusal — "you  understand,  don't  you?" 

"Perfectly,"  the  reporter  answered.  "I  told  the 
chief  myself  you  wouldn't  see  it." 

"Paper's  been  too  friendly  for  me  to  assume  any — 
any—" 

"Unnecessary  dignity,"  Jack  suggested. 

"Exactly;  but  I  just  couldn't  do  that,  you  see." 

"Oh,  leave  it  to  me;  I'll  let  you  down  easy,"  Em 
mett  assured  him. 

"Thank  you." 

"You  expect  to  be  in  Europe  or — " 

"But  I  don't." 

"We're  going  to  stay  right  here  in  Louisville," 
Viola  declared,  putting  her  hand  in  Clay's. 

226 


THE  WITCHING   HOUR 

"Yes,"  added  the  boy,  "and  work  out  my — my  re 
habilitation  among  the  people  who  know  me." 

"  Of  course,"  Emmett  said,  understandingly.  "  Eu 
rope's  just  to  stall  off  the  chief — to  get  him  off  on 
some  other  dope." 

Helen  rose  anxiously  from  the  sofa  with  the  impulse 
of  protest. 

"  It's  all  right,"  Jack  said  to  her. 

"I  hate  to  begin  with  a  falsehood." 

"Not  your  son,  Mrs.  Whipple — me,"  Emmett  laugh 
ed.  He  turned  to  Jack.  "I  saw  some  copy  on  our 
telegraph  desk,  Mr.  Brookfield,  that  would  interest 
you." 

"Yes?" 

" Or  maybe  you  know  of  it ?    Frankfort?" 

"No." 

"Some  friend  named  you  in  the  caucus." 

"What  connection?" 

"Governor." 

"Uncle  Jack?"  Viola  asked,  enthusiastically. 

"Yes'm — that  is,  for  the  nomination." 

All  looked  at  Brookfield.  There  was  but  a  mo 
ment's  serious  consideration  for  Jack  before  he 
laughed : 

"It's  a  joke." 

"  Grows  out  of  these  Hardmuth  charges,  of  course," 
Emmett  assented,  smiling. 

"That's  all,"  Jack  answered. 

The  reporter  said  good-night  and  left  the  room. 
Clay,  after  accompanying  him  to  the  door,  returned, 
his  face  set  and  bearing  the  stamp  of  malignant  de 
termination. 

227 


THE  WITCHING    HOUR 

"If  it  weren't  for  the  notoriety  of  it,  I'd  like  to  do 
that." 

"My  son!"  Helen  exclaimed,  reproachfully. 

"  Why  would  you  like  to  do  it  ?"  Jack  asked,  quietly. 

"To  get  even.  I'd  like  to  see  Hardmuth  suffer  as 
he  made  me  suffer;  I'd  like  to  watch  him  suffer  and 
write  of  it." 

"That's  a  bad  spirit  to  face  the  world  with, my 
boy." 

"I  hate  him!" 

"  Hatred  is  heavier  freight  for  the  shipper  than  it  is 
for  the  consignee." 

"I  can't  help  it." 

"Yes,  you  can.  Mr.  Hardmuth  should  be  of  the 
utmost  indifference  to  you;  to  hate  him  is  weak." 

"Weak?"  Viola  interjected. 

"Yes,  weak-minded,"  pursued  her  uncle.  "Hard 
muth  was  in  love  with  you  at  one  time — he  hated 
Clay.  He  said  Clay  was  as  weak  as  dish-water,  and ' ' — 
facing  the  boy  and  looking  him  straight  in  the  eyes 
"you  were  at  that  time.  You've  had  your  lesson — 
profit  by  it — its  meaning  was  self-control.  Begin 
now  if  you  are  going  to  be  the  custodian  of  this  girl's 
happiness." 

"I'm  sure  he  means  to,  Jack,"  Helen  interposed. 

"  You  can  carry  your  hatred  of  Hardmuth  and  let 
it  embitter  your  whole  life,  or  you  can  drop  it — so." 
Jack  let  fall  on  the  table  the  book  he  had  taken  up. 
"The  power  that  any  man  or  any  thing  has  to  annoy 
us  we  give  him  or  it  by  our  interest.  Some  idiot  told 
your  great-grandmother  that  a  jewel  with  different 
colored  strata  in  it  was  'bad  luck'  or  a  'hoodoo.'  She 

228 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

believed  it,  and  she  nursed  her  faith  and  passed  the 
lunacy  on  to  your  grandmother." 

"Jack,  don't  talk  of  that,  please/'  Helen  protested. 

"I'll  skip  one  generation;  but  I'd  like  to  talk  of  it." 

"Why  talk  of  it?"  Mrs.  Campbell  ventured  to  ask. 

"It  was  only  a  notion,  and  an  effort  of  will  can 
banish  it."  Jack  was  again  speaking  to  the  boy. 

"It  was  more  than  a  notion." 

"  Tom  Denning' s  scarf  -  pin,  which  he  dropped 
there  " — he  pointed  to  the  floor — "was  an  exhibit  in 
your  trial;  Colonel  Bailey  returned  it  to  me  to-day." 
Brookfield  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't,  Uncle  Jack,"  Viola  said, 
timidly. 

"You  don't  mind,  do  you?"  Brookfield  asked  Clay. 

"  I'd  rather  not  look  at  it  to-night."  The  boy's  face 
was  averted,  his  voice  trembled. 

"You  needn't  look  at  it,"  Brookfield  said,  quietly; 
"  I'll  hold  it  in  my  hand,  and  you  put  your  hand  over 
mine." 

"  I  really  don't  see  the  use  in  this  experiment,  Jack," 
Mrs.  Campbell  fluttered.  Clay  had  obediently  placed 
one  hand  over  Brookfield 's,  but  he  still  kept  his  eyes 
averted. 

"That  doesn't  annoy  you,  does  it?"  Brookfield 
asked. 

"I'm  controlling  myself,  sir,"  the  boy  answered, 
through  shut  teeth,  "but  I  feel  the  influence  of  that 
thing  all  through  and  through  me." 

"Jack!"  Helen  pleaded. 

Viola  turned  away,  unable  to  bear  the  sight  of  the 
boy's  suffering. 

229 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"Down  your  back,  isn't  it?"  Jack  persisted,  relent- 
lessly,  "and  in  the  roots  of  your  hair — tingling?" 

"Yes." 

"Why  torture  him?"  Helen  demanded. 

"Is  it  torture?"  Jack  asked  of  Clay. 

"I  shall  be  glad  when  it's  over,  sir,"  the  boy 
answered,  with  an  additional  effort  at  self-con 
trol. 

"What  rot!"  Brookfield  threw  oS  Clay's  hand.  He 
opened  his  own.  "That's  only  my  night-key — look 
at  it!"  The  boy  turned  and  looked.  "  I  haven't  the 
scarf-pin  about  me!" 

"Why  make  me  think  it  was  the  scarf-pin?"  Clay 
asked,  with  a  considerable  show  of  frightened  indig 
nation. 

"To  prove  to  you  that  it's  only  thinking — that's  all. 
Now,  be  a  man.  The  cat's-eye  itself  is  in  that  table 
drawer.  Get  it,  and  show  Viola  that  you're  not  a  neu 
ropathic  idiot."  Clay  crossed  to  the  table.  "You're  a 
child  of  the  everlasting  God,  and  nothing  on  the  earth 
or  under  it  can  harm  you  in  the  slightest  degree!" 
Clay  had  opened  the  drawer  and  taken  from  it  the 
scarf-pin;  he  held  it  at  arm's -length  before  him. 
"That's  the  spirit— look  at  it!"  Brookfield  took  Clay 
by  the  wrist  and  pushed  the  jewel  immediately  be 
fore  his  eyes.  "Look  at  it  close — I've  made  many  a 
young  horse  do  that  to  an  umbrella — now  give  it  to 
me."  Brookfield  took  the  scarf-pin  and  carried  it  to 
Viola.  "  You're  not  afraid  of  it  ?" 

"Of  course  I'm  not,"  the  girl  smiled. 

Brookfield  stuck  the  pin  in  the  lace  at  her  throat. 
He  turned  to  Clay. 

230 


THE   WITCHING  HOUR 

"Now,  if  you  want  my  niece,  go  up  to  that '  hoodoo* 
like  a  man." 

His  fear  of  the  jewel  now  apparently  under  com 
plete  control,  Clay  went  up  to  Viola  and  took  her  in 
his  arms. 

"Oh,  Jack!"  Helen  exclaimed,  happily,  "do  you 
think  that  will  last?" 

"Which?"  Brookfield  asked,  with  a  laugh— "  indif 
ference  to  the  '  hoodoo '  or  partiality  to  my  niece?" 

"They'll  both  last,"  Clay  answered,  with  resolu 
tion. 

"  Now,  my  boy  " — Jack  turned  to  him,  his  serious 
ness  resumed — "drop  your  hatred  of  Hardmuth  as 
you  drop  your  fear  of  the  scarf-pin.  Don't  look 
back — your  life  is  ahead  of  you;  don't  mount  for 
the  race  overweighted." 

Jo  announced  Mr.  Ellinger.  Lew  had  followed  him 
to  the  doorway,  and  entered  the  dining-room  behind 
him. 

"I  don't  intrude,  do  I?"  It  was  almost  a  chal 
lenge. 

"Come  in." 

Lew  was  in  a  gale  of  excitement.  He  greeted  the 
ladies  affably;  he  turned  to  the  young  people. 

"Ah,  Clay,  glad  to  see  you  looking  so  well;  glad 
to  see  you  in  such  good  company  1"  And  then  to 
Jack,  in  triumph:  "I've  got  him!" 

"Got  whom?"  said  Brookfield. 

"  Hardmuth.  Detectives  been  hunting  him  all  day, 
you  know." 

"He's  caught,  you  say?"  Helen  asked,  excitedly. 

"No;  but  I've  treed  him."  Ellinger  turned  to 

231 


THE  WITCHING   HOUR 

Brookfield.  "And  I  thought  I'd  just  have  a  word 
with  you  before  passing  the  tip.  He's  nearly  put 
me  in  the  poor-house  with  his  raids  and  closing  laws, 
and  I  see  a  chance  to  get  even." 

"In  what  way?"  Brookfield  asked. 

"  They've  been  after  him.  nearly  twenty-four  hours 
— morning  paper's  going  to  offer  a  reward  for  him, 
and  I  understand  the  State  will  also.  If  I  had  a  lit 
tle  help  I'd  hide  him  for  a  day  or  two,  and  then  sur 
render  him  for  those  rewards." 

"Where  is  Hardmuth?" 

"HidinV 

"Naturally,"  Brookfield  commented. 

"  You  remember  '  Big  George'  ?" 

"The  darky?" 

"Yes;  used  to  be  on  the  door  at  Phil  Kelly's." 

"Yes." 

"He's  there  —  in  'Big  George's'  cottage  —  long 
story."  Lew  turned  with  an  air  of  importance  to  the 
ladies.  " '  Big  George's '  wife — that  is  —  she  — "  El- 
linger  hesitated  as  his  eyes  fell  on  Viola.  "  Well,  his 
wife  used  to  be  pantry-maid  for  Hardmuth's  mother. 
When  they  raided  Kelly's  game  'Big  George'  pre 
tended  to  turn  State's  evidence,  but  he  really  hates 
Hardmuth  like  a  rattler — so  it  all  comes  back  to  me. 
You  see,  if  I'd  win  a  couple  of  hundred  at  Kelly's  I 
used  to  slip  George  a  ten  goin'  out."  This  explana 
tion  was  unctuously  given  to  the  ladies:  "Your  luck 
always  stays  by  you  if  you  divide  a  little  with  a 
nigger  or  a  hump-back,  and  in  Louisville  it's  easier 
to  find  a  nigger.  So — " 

"He's  there  now?"  Brookfield  interrupted. 

232 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"  Yes.  He  wants  to  get  away.  He's  got  two  guns, 
and  he'll  shoot  before  he  gives  up,  so  I'd  have  to 
'con*  him  some  way.  George's  wife  is  to  open  the 
door  to  Kelly's  old  signal  —  you  remember  —  one 
knock,  then  two,  and  then  one."  Ellinger  acted  out 
the  signal,  rapping  on  the  table. 

"Where  is  the  cottage?" 

"Hundred  and  seven  Jackson  Street — little  door- 
yard — border  of  arbor- vitae  on  the  path." 

Jack  took  a  sheet  of  paper  and  envelope  from  the 
table-rack  and  began  to  write. 

"One  knock,  then  two,  and  then  one?"  he  asked, 
without  looking  up. 

"What  you  goin'  to  do?"  Ellinger  inquired,  alertly. 

"Send  for  him." 

"  Who  you  goin'  to  send  ?"  There  was  a  suggestion 
of  physical  recoil  as  the  old  sport  asked  the  question. 

"That  boy  there,"  Brookfield  answered. 

"Me?"     Clay  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Yes." 

"Oh  no — no!"  Helen  exclaimed,  aghast. 

"And  my  niece,"  Brookfield  added. 

"What!"  Viola  cried,  in  alarm.  "To  arrest  a 
man?" 

"  My  machine  is  at  the  door,"  Brookfield  instructed 
Clay.  "  Give  Hardmuth  this  note — he  will  come  with 
you  quietly.  Bring  him  here.  We  will  decide  what 
to  do  with  him  after  that." 

"  I  can't  allow  Viola  to  go  on  such  an  errand,"  Mrs. 
Campbell  protested  to  her  brother. 

"  When  the  man  she  has  promised  to  marry  is  going 
into  danger?"  Brookfield  upbraided  his  sister. 

233 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR 

"If  Mr.  Hardmuth  will  come  for  that  note,  why 
can't  I  deliver  it?"  Viola  inquired,  with  an  undefined 
impulse  for  the  heroic. 

"You  may,"  her  uncle  answered,  smiling,  "if  Clay 
will  let  you."  He  extended  the  note  to  the  girl ;  Clay 
took  it  from  him  before  Viola  could  do  so. 

"I'll  hand  it  to  him." 

"I  hope  so,"  Brookfield  answered.  He  took  his 
fur  coat  and  goggles  from  the  chair  where  he  had 
laid  them.  "Take  these,"  he  said,  handing  them  to 
Clay.  "Remember:  one  rap,  then  two,  then  one." 

"I  understand,"  said  the  boy;  "number — " 

"  Hundred  and  seven  Jackson  Street,"  Ellinger  sup 
plied. 

"I  protest,"  Mrs.  Campbell  once  more  interposed. 

"So  do  I,"  said  Helen,  joining  her. 

Jack  turned  to  the  younger  couple. 

"  You're  both  of  age — I  ask  you  to  do  it.  If  you 
give  Hardmuth  the  goggles  nobody  will  recognize 
him,  and  with  a  lady  beside  him  you'll  get  him  safely 
here." 

"Come!"  said  Clay,  decisively,  to  Viola. 

"I  ought  to  be  in  the  party!"  Ellinger  called,  bus 
tling  after  them. 

"No,"  Brookfield  commanded,  "you  stay  here." 

"That's  scandalous!"  Mrs.  Campbell  pronounced, 
in  high  dudgeon  with  her  brother. 

"But  none  of  us  will  start  the  scandal,  will  we?" 
Brookfield  asked  his  sister,  in  aggravating  calm. 

Helen  turned  to  him  and  said:  "Clay  knows  noth 
ing  of  that  kind  of  work.  A  man  with  two  guns — 
think  of  it!" 

234 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR 

"After  he's  walked  barehanded  up  to  a  couple  of 
guns  a  few  times  he'll  quit  fearing  men  armed  only 
with  a  scarf-pin,"  Brookfield  replied. 

"It's  cruel  to  keep  constantly  referring  to  that — 
mistake  of  Clay's.  I  want  to  forget  it." 

Jack  took  Helen's  hand  tenderly  in  his  own. 

"The  way  to  forget  it,  my  dear  Helen,  is  not  to 
guard  it,  a  sensitive  spot  in  your  memory,  btft  to 
grasp  it  as  the  wise  ones  grasp  a  nettle — crush  all  its 
power  to  harm  you  in  one  courageous  contact.  We 
think  things  are  calamities  and  trials  and  sorrows — 
only  names;  they  are  spiritual  gymnastics,  and  have 
an  eternal  value  when  once  you  confront  them  and 
make  them  crouch  at  your  feet.  Say  once  for  all 
to  your  soul,  and  thereby  to  the  world:  'Yes,  my 
boy  killed  a  man  because  I'd  brought  him  up  a 
half -effeminate,  hysterical  weakling;  but  he's  been 
through  the  fire,  I've  been  through  the  fire,  and  we're 
both  the  better  for  it.'" 

"I  can  say  that  truthfully,"  Helen  half  sobbed, 
"but  I  don't  want  to  make  a  policeman  of  him  just 
the  same."  She  withdrew  her  hand  from  Jack's,  and, 
on  the  verge  of  tears,  went  out  of  the  room,  followed 
by  Mrs.  Campbell,  who  added,  disapprovingly,  as  she 
left: 

"Your  treatment  is  a  little  too  heroic,  Jack!" 

16 


XVI 

T  EW  waited  anxiously  until  Jack  had  lighted  a  cigar, 
JL*/  and  then,  unable  to  restrain  his  impatience  longer, 
he  asked: 

"Think  they'll  fetch  him?" 

"Yes." 

"He'll  come,  of  course,  if  he  does  under  the  idea 
that  you'll  help  him  when  he  gets  here." 

"Yes." 

"Pretty  hard  double-cross,"  Lew  ruminated,  "but 
he  deserves  it."  There  was  a  pause,  and  then  he  went 
on,  confidentially:  "I've  got  a  note  of  fifteen  thou 
sand  to  meet  to-morrow  or,  damn  it,  I  don't  think 
I'd  fancy  this  man-huntin'.  I  put  up  some  Louis 
ville  &  Nashville  bonds  for  security,  and  the  holder 
of  the  note  will  be  only  too  anxious  to  pinch  'em." 

Brookfield  took  a  check-book  from  the  drawer  of 
the  table  and  began  to  write,  saying  as  he  did  so : 

"You  can't  get  your  rewards  in  time  for  that." 

"I  know,  and  that's  one  reason  I  come  to  you, 
Jack.  If  you  see  I'm  in  a  fair  way  to  get  the  re 
wards — " 

"I'll  lend  you  the  money — "  Jack  took  him  up. 

"Thank  you — I  thought  you  would.  If  I  lose  those 
bonds  they'll  have  me  selling  programmes  for  a  livin' 
at  a  grandstand.  You  see,  I  thought  hatin'  Hardmuth 

236 


THE  WITCHING   HOUR 

as  you  do,  and  your  reputation  bein*  up  through  that 
stuff  in  the  papers — " 

"There."     Brookfield  handed  Ellinger  the  check. 

"Thank  you,  old  man."  Lew  scanned  the  check. 
"I'll  hand  this  back  to  you  in  a  week." 

"You  needn't." 

"What!" 

"You  needn't  hand  it  back.  It's  only  fifteen  thou 
sand,  and  you've  lost  a  hundred  of  them  at  poker  in 
these  rooms." 

"Never  belly-ached,  did  I?" 

"Never."  Brookfield  smiled.  "But  you  don't  owe 
me  that  fifteen." 

"Rot!    I'm  no  baby.    Square  game,  wasn't  it?" 

"Perfectly." 

"And  I'll  sit  in  a  square  game  any  time  I  get  a 
chance."  Ellinger  folded  the  check  and  put  it  into 
his  vest-pocket. 

"I  know,  Lew,  all  about  that." 

"  I'll  play  you  for  this  fifteen  right  now. ' '  Ellinger's 
fingers  had  not  left  the  paper,  and  they  reproduced  it 
from  his  pocket  with  comical  eagerness. 

"No." 

"Ain't  had  a  game  in  three  weeks."  There  was 
a  genuine  note  of  appeal  in  the  voice.  "Besides,  I 
think  my  luck's  changin'.  When  'Big  George'  told 
me  about  Hardmuth,  I  took  George's  hand  before  I 
thought  what  I  was  doin',  and  you  know  what  shakin' 
hands  with  a  nigger  does  just  before  any  play." 

"No,  thank  you,  Lew,"  Jack  repeated. 

"My  money's  good  as  anybody  else's,  ain't  it?"  the 
old  gamester  badgered. 

237 


THE  WITCHING  HOUR 

"Just  as  good,  but — " 

"Tain't  a  phoney  check,  is  it?"  EUinger  scanned 
the  paper  with  close  scrutiny. 

"The  check  is  all  right,"  Brookfield  said,  restrain 
ing  his  amusement  with  difficulty. 

"Losing  your  nerve?"  Ellinger  taunted. 

' '  No !' '  Brookfield  was  immediately  ashamed  of  the • 
anger  in  his  tone.  "Suppose  you  shuffle  those  cards 
and  deal  a  hand."  He  pointed  to  the  side-table  upon 
which  a  deck  of  cards  was  lying. 

' 'That's  like  old  times."  Lew  brightened.  "What 
is  it — stud-horse  or  draw?" 

"Draw,  if  you  say  so."  Brookfield  went  to  the 
opposite  side  of  the  room,  where  he  stood  in  front  of 
the  fireplace. 

"I  cut  'em?"  Lew  inquired,  as  he  finished  the 
shuffle. 

"You  cut  them." 

Ellinger  was  dealing.  "Table  stakes — this  check 
goes  for  a  thousand." 

"That  suits  me." 

"Sit  down,"  Lew  invited,  eager  for  the  game. 

"I  don't  need  to  sit  down  just  yet,-"  Brookfield  said, 
from  his  position  before  the  fire. 

"As  easy  as  that,  am  I?"  Ellinger  grumbled.  He 
was  squeezing  his  five  cards  and  cautiously  reading 
their  marginal  characters.  There  was  a  moment's 
pause  as  Brookfield  gazed  into  the  fire. 

"Lew." 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  happen  to  have  three  queens?" 

Ellinger  drew  his  cards  toward  him  in  instinctive 

238 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

defence,  gave  a  startled  look  at  Brookfield,  whose 
back  was  to  him,  turned  the  cards  over,  examining 
them  with  expert  eye  and  touch,  then  looked  at  the 
remaining  cards  in  the  deck. 

"Well,  I  can't  see  it,"  he  said. 

"No  use  looking — they're  not  marked." 

"Well,  I  shuffled  them  all  right?" 

"Yes,"  Brookfield  assented. 

"And  cut  'em?" 

Brookfield  nodded. 

"Couldn't  have  been  a  cold  deck?" 

"No,"  said  Jack. 

"Then  how  did  you  know  I  had  three  queens?" 

"I  didn't  know  it — I  just  thought  you  had."  Brook- 
field  spoke  slowly  and  sadly  as  he  returned  to  the  cen 
tre  of  the  room. 

"Can  you  do  it  again?" 

"I  don't  know."  Brookfield  paused.  "Draw  one 
card." 

Ellinger  obeyed.     "All  right." 

"Is  it  the  ace  of  hearts  ?"  Brookfield  asked,  without 
looking  toward  him. 

"It  is."  Ellinger  put  down  the  card  in  a  hush  of 
wonderment.  Brookfield  took  the  cigar  from  his  lips 
and  slowly  ground  out  its  light  in  the  bronze  ash 
tray  on  the  table.  He  was  as  visibly  affected  as 
Ellinger,  though  in  quite  a  different  way. 

"Turns  me  into  a  rotter,  doesn't  it?"  he  commented, 
sadly. 

"Can  you  do  that  every  time?"  Lew's  inquiry  had 
a  suspicious  alertness. 

"I  never  tried  it  until  to-night,"  Brookfield  an- 

239 


THE  WITCHING   HOUR 

swered,  slowly — "that  is,  consciously.  I've  always 
had  luck,  and  I  thought  it  was  because  I  took  chances 
on  a  guess,  same  as  any  player;  but  that  doesn't 
look  like  it,  does  it?" 

"Beats  me,"  Ellinger  confessed. 

"And  what  a  monster  it  makes  of  me — these  years 
I've  been  in  the  business." 

"You  say  you  didn't  know  it  before?"  Ellinger  re 
peated,  his  little  eyes  a-glitter  with  interest. 

"I  didn't  know  it — no;  but  some  things  have  hap 
pened  lately  that  made  me  think  it  might  be  so :  that 
jury  yesterday" — Brookfield  recurred  to  the  event 
with  impressive  solemnity — "some  facts  I've  had  from 
Justice  Prentice — telepathy  of  a  very  common  kind, 
and  I  guess  it's  used  in  a  good  many  games,  old  man, 
we  aren't  on  to."  Brookfield  was  half  sitting  on  the 
large  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room.  Lew  leaned 
forward  on  the  edge  of  his  chair  at  the  little  card- 
table  opposite  him. 

"Well,  have  you  told  anybody?" 

"No." 

' '  Good ! ' *  Lew  stood  up  in  great  excitement.  ' '  Now 
see  here,  Jack" — he  came  quickly  to  Brookfield — "if 
you  can  do  that  right  along  I  know  a  game  in  Cincin 
nati  where  it  would  be  like  takin'  candy  from  children." 

"Good  God!"  Brookfield  exploded.  He  turned 
with  an  impulse  of  denunciation  upon  the  old  gambler 
at  his  side.  One  look  into  Lew's  keen  face,  however, 
convinced  him  that  there  was  no  room  for  moral  con 
sideration  in  the  undiluted  rascality  of  Lew's  inten 
tion.  Brookfield  could  only  say:  "You're  not  sug 
gesting  that  I  keep  it  up?" 

240 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

"Don't  overdo  it — no,"  said  the  old  man,  cautiously; 
"or  you  show  me  the  trick  and  I'll  collect  all  right." 

Brookfield  was  thinking. 

"Lew,"  he  said,  slowly,  when  at  length  he  spoke, 
"some  of  the  fellows  I've  won  from  in  this  house 
have  gone  over  into  the  park  and  blown  their  heads 
off." 

"Some  of  the  fellows  anybody  wins  from,  in  any 
house,  go  somewhere  and  blow  their  heads  off,"  Lew 
drawled,  discouragingly. 

"True,"  Brookfield  said. 

"Three  queens,"  Ellinger  murmured,  with  growing 
wonder — "before  the  draw  —  well,  you  could  have 
had  me  all  right.  And  you  won't  tell  me  how  you  do 
it?"  he  pleaded,  sadly. 

"I  don't  know  how  I  do  it — the  thought  just  comes 
to  my  mind  stronger  than  any  other  thought." 

Lew  fixed  his  disapproving  gaze  upon  Brookfield, 
and  in  the  very  superlative  of  rebuke  exclaimed: 

"God  A'mighty  gives  you  a  mind  like  that,  and  you 
won't  go  with  me  to  Cincinnati!" 

Jo  entered,  and  announced  Justice  Prentice. 

"Ask  him  to  step  up  here,"  Brookfield  ordered. 
He  then  went  to  the  door  of  the  dining-room,  and 
called  to  his  sister  and  Helen:  "Justice  Prentice  is 
coming  up,  and  I'd  like  you  to  join  us!" 

Lew  was  again  affectionately  regarding  the  five 
cards  he  had  dealt  himself. 

"Can  the  old  man  call  a  hand  like  that,  too?"  he 
asked  Brookfield. 

"I'm  sure  he  could,"  said  Jack. 

"And  are  there  others?"  Ellinger  inquired,  his 

241 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

sense  of  wonder  at  the  trick  overborne  by  sudden 
hopelessness. 

"  I  believe  there  are  a  good  many  others  who  un 
consciously  have  the  same  ability." 

"Well,  it's  a  God's  blessin'  there's  a  sucker  born 
every  minute.  I'm  a  widow  and  an  orphan  'long- 
side  of  that."  Lew  threw  the  cards  on  the  table  in 
disgust. 

"Been  losing,  Mr.  Ellinger?"  Mrs.  Campbell  in 
quired,  as  she  and  Helen  came  into  the  room. 

"  Losing  ?  I  just  saved  fifteen  thousand  I  was  goin* 
to  throw  away  like  sand  in  a  rat-hole.  I'm  a  babe 
eatin'  spoon- victuals,  and  only  gettin'  half  at  that." 
Lew  sorrowfully  replaced  the  check  in  his  pocket. 

The  Justice  came  into  the  room. 

"I  stopped  at  your  hotel,  Mr.  Justice,"  Jack  said, 
"but  you  were  out." 

"Yes,"  Prentice  explained,  "I  have  been  making 
a  few  parting  calls,  and  I  stopped — " 

The  hurried  entrance  of  Viola  and  Mrs.  Campbell's 
exclamation  at  sight  of  her  interrupted  the  Justice. 

"Where's  Clay?"  Helen  asked,  with  repressed  ex 
citement. 

"Down-stairs." 

Viola  greeted  the  Justice  and  turned  to  Brookfield, 
who  excused  himself  to  the  others,  and,  stepping  aside 
with  his  niece,  inquired: 

"Did  the  gentleman  come  with  you?" 

"Yes." 

Ellinger  overheard  this  reply,  and  his  own  ner 
vousness  added  to  the  uneasiness  of  the  group. 

"Won't  you  ask  Clay,  my  dear,"  Brookfield  con- 

242 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

tinued  to  Viola,  "  to  take  him  through  the  lower  hall 
and  into  the  dining-room  until  I'm  at  liberty?" 

"Certainly."     Viola  left  on  her  errand. 

"I  am  keeping  you  from  other  appointments," 
Prentice  said. 

"Nothing  that  can't  wait." 

Brookfield  offered  him  a  chair,  but  the  Justice  de 
clined  it,  and  going  to  the  ladies  he  extended  his 
hand. 

"I  am  leaving  for  Washington  in  the  morning." 

"We  shall  all  be  at  the  train  to  see  you  off,  Mr. 
Justice,"  said  Brookfield. 

"That's  good,  because  I  should  like  to  say  good 
bye  to  the  young  people — I  can  see  them  there.  I 
sha'n't  see  you  then,  Mr.  Ellinger?"  Prentice  crossed 
to  where  Lew  was  still  standing  by  the  three  queens, 
gone  but  not  forgotten.  He  extended  his  hand. 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Justice,"  said  Lew;  "you've  given 
me  more  of  a  'turnover'  than  you  know." 

"Really?" 

"  I'd  'a'  saved  two  hundred  thousand  dollars  if  I'd 
met  you  thirty  years  ago." 

"Well,  that's  only  a  little  over  six  thousand  a 
year,  isn't  it?" 

"That's  so;  and,  damn  it,  I  have  lived!"  At  this 
statement,  and  with  the  recollection  behind  it,  there 
came  into  Lew's  ruddy-duck  smile  that  unctuous 
suggestion  of  good  feeling  which  was  peculiarly  his 
own.  The  smile  abided,  and  the  retrospection  grew 
during  the  succeeding  moments  in  which  the  Justice 
was  bidding  farewell  to  the  ladies  and  leaving  Jack 
in  the  hallway. 

243 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

As  Jack  returned,  his  sister,  who  had  been  looking 
into  the  dining-room,  came  quickly  to  him. 

"Is  that  Hardmuth  in  there?"  she  asked,  nodding 
over  her  shoulder. 

"Yes,"  Jack  answered. 

"I  don't  want  to  see  him." 

"Very  well,  dear;  I'll  excuse  you." 

"Come,  Helen."     Mrs.  Campbell  left  the  room. 

"I'd  like  you  to  stay,"  Jack  said  to  Helen. 

"Me?" 

"Yes." 

Left  alone  with  Helen  and  Ellinger,  Brookfield 
crossed  to  the  dining-room  door  and  opened  it. 

"Come  in,"  he  said. 

Viola  entered,  followed  by  Hardmuth  and  Clay. 
In  her  excitement  she  had  forgotten  to  lay  off  the  fur 
coat  which  she  had  worn  in  the  automobile.  As 
Brookfield  removed  the  coat  from  her  shoulders  he 
said  to  her: 

"  Your  mother  has  just  left  us,  Viola ;  you  had  bet 
ter  join  her." 

"Very  well."  As  the  girl  started  to  go  out  her 
uncle  took  her  hand,  detaining  her  a  moment. 

"  I  want  you  to  know,  my  dear,  how  thoroughly  I 
appreciate  your  going  on  this  errand  for  me.  You're 
the  right  stuff!"  Jack  kissed  her  affectionately; 
Viola  left  the  room. 

Brookfield  turned  to  Hardmuth,  who  was  standing 
by  the  side  of  Clay.  Hardmuth  was  haggard  and 
had  a  hunted  look.  He  wore  a  dark  overcoat  of 
some  light  material;  in  his  hand  he  held  the  auto 
mobile  goggles  which  Clay  had  given  him.  Brook- 

244 


THE   WITCHING  HOUR 

field  found  it  difficult  to  put  into  speech  the  severity 
which  he  felt  the  situation  demanded. 

"You  are  trying  to  get  away?"  he  began,  inter 
rogatively. 

"This  your  note?"  Hardmuth  said,  in  reply,  ex 
tending  Brookfield's  letter. 

"Yes." 

Hardmuth  glanced  at  the  page.  "You  say  you 
will  help  me  get  out  of  the  State?" 

"I  will." 

"When?" 

"Whenever  you  are  ready." 

"I'm  ready  now." 

"Then  I'll  help  you  now." 

"Now?"  Ellinger  cried  out,  in  astonishment. 

"Yes." 

"  Doesn't  that  render  you  liable  in  some  way,  Jack, 
to  the  law?"  Helen  said,  anxiously. 

"Yes;  but  I've  been  liable  to  the  law  in  some  way 
for  the  last  twenty  years."  Brookfield  turned  to 
Clay.  "  You  go  down  and  tell  the  chauffeur  to  leave 
the  machine  and  walk  home;  I'm  going  to  run  it 
myself,  and  I'll  turn  it  in." 

"Yes,  sir."     Clay  left  the  room. 

"  You're  going  to  run  it  yourself  ?"  Hardmuth  asked, 
with  quick  suspicion. 

"Yes." 

"Where  to?" 

"Across  the  river,  if  that's  agreeable  to  you— or 
any  place  you  name." 

"Anybody  waiting  for  you  across  the  river?" 

"No." 

245 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

Again  Hardmuth  extended  Brookfield's  letter.  "  Is 
this  all  on  the  level?" 

"Completely." 

"Why,  I  believe  you  mean  that,"  Ellinger  said,  in 
perplexity  to  Jack. 

"I  do." 

"But  I've  got  something  to  say,  haven't  I?" 

"I  hope  not."  Brookfield's  answer  was  full  of 
authority. 

"Well,  if  you're  in  earnest,  of  course,"  Lew  apolo 
gized;  "but  I  don't  see  your  game." 

"I'm  not  fully  convinced  of  Mr.  Hardmuth's  guilt." 

"Why,  he's  runnin'  away!" 

"I  know  what  a  case  they  would  make  against 
me,"  Hardmuth  blustered;  "but  I'm  not  guilty  in 
any  degree." 

"Frank,"  Brookfield  sternly  interrupted,  "I  want 
to  do  this  thing  for  you;  don't  make  it  too  difficult 
by  any  lying.  When  I  said  I  wasn't  fully  convinced 
of  your  guilt,  my  reservation  was  one  you  wouldn't 
understand."  He  crossed  to  the  mantel  and  pushed 
the  electric  button.  Clay  had  entered  the  room  while 
he  was  speaking,  and  stood  respectfully  waiting  to 
report.  Brookfield  now  inquired  of  the  boy: 

"Is  he  gone?" 

"Yes." 

"My  coat  and  goggles?" 

"Below  in  the  reception-room,"  Clay  said. 

"Thank  you.  I  wish  now  you  would  go  to  Viola 
and  her  mother,  and  keep  them  wherever  they  are." 

"All  right,  sir."  Clay  left  the  room;  Brookfield 
turned  to  Hardmuth. 

246 


THE   WITCHING  HOUR 

"Hungry?" 

"No,  thank  you." 

"Got  money?" 

"Yes." 

The  darky  boy  came  in  answer  to  the  bell.  "Jo, 
take  Mr.  Hardmuth  below  and  lend  him  one  of  the 
fur  coats."  And  then  to  Hardmuth,  "I'll  join  you 
immediately." 

Hardmuth  followed  the  boy  from  the  room. 

Again  left  alone  with  Ellinger  and  Helen,  Brook- 
field  turned  to  Lew  and  said : 

"Lew,  I  called  that  ace  of  hearts,  didn't  I?" 

"And  the  three  queens,"  Lew  answered,  with  rem 
iniscent  regret. 

"Because  the  three  queens  and  the  ace  were  in 
your  mind." 

"I  don't  see  any  other  explanation." 

"But  suppose  instead  of  the  cards  there  had  been 
in  your  mind  a  well-developed  plan  of  assassination — 
the  picture  of  a  murder — " 

"Did  you  drop  to  him  that  way?" 

' '  No ;  Raynor  told  me  all  I  know  of  Hardmuth.  But 
here's  the  very  hell  of  it."  It  was  evident  to  Helen 
that  Brookfield's  mental  agony  was  unfeigned.  "Long 
before  Scovil  was  killed  I  thought  he  deserved  killing, 
and  I  thought  it  could  be  done  just  as  it  was  done." 

"Jack!"  Helen  exclaimed,  in  a  whisper. 

"I  never  breathed  a  word  of  it  to  a  living  soul, 
but  Hardmuth  planned  it  exactly  as  I  dreamed  it, 
and,  by  God,  a  guilty  thought  is  almost  as  criminal 
as  a  guilty  deed!  I've  always  had  a  considerable  in 
fluence  over  that  poor  devil  that's  running  away  to- 

247 


THE   WITCHING   HOUR 

night,  and  I'm  not  sure  that  before  the  Judge  of 
both  of  us  the  guilt  isn't  mostly  mine." 

In  her  wish  to  diminish  Brookfield's  mental  suffer 
ing,  Helen  sympathetically  took  his  hand.  "That's 
morbid,  Jack,  dear,"  she  urged — "perfectly  morbid." 

"I  hope  it  is-  we'll  none  of  us  ever  know  in  this 
life."  He  turned  to  Ellinger.  "But  we  can  all  of 
us—" 

"What?"  asked  Lew,  as  Brookfield  paused. 

"Live  as  if  it  were  true."  With  an  effort  Brook- 
field  threw  off  the  sombreness  of  his  mood  and  pre 
pared  for  action.  "I'm  going  to  help  him  over  the 
line.  The  roads  are  watched,  but  the  police  won't 
suspect  me,  and  they  won't  suspect  Lew,  and  all  the 
less  if  there  is  a  lady  with  us."  He  turned  again 
briskly  to  Ellinger.  "Will  you  go?" 

"The  limit,"  the  old  sport  answered,  in  character 
istic  phrase. 

"Get  a  heavy  coat  from  Jo." 

"All  right." 

Brookfield  was  left  alone  with  Helen.  He  turned 
to  where  she  was  sitting  at  one  end  of  the  library- 
table.  The  hour,  the  lighting  of  the  room,  their 
relative  positions  recalled  with  photographic  vivid 
ness  their  conversation  on  the  night  of  the  opera,  the 
conversation  in  which  he  had  received  the  first  hint 
of  the  power  of  which  he  had  since  become  so  respon 
sibly  conscious,  and  which  had  worked  such  regenera 
tion  in  his  life.  He  put  one  hand  over  her  hand,  rest 
ing  on  the  table  as  it  had  rested  then. 

"You  know  you  said  I  used  to  be  able  to  make  you 
write  to  me  when  I  was  a  boy  at  college?" 

248 


THE  WITCHING   HOUR 

"Yes." 

"And  you  were  a  thousand  miles  away  while  this 
fellow  Hardmuth  was  just  at  my  elbow  half  the 
time." 

Helen  rose  quickly  and  came  to  him  close.  "It 
can't  help  you  to  brood  over  it,  Jack." 

He  took  both  her  hands  in  his,  laying  them  upon 
h;.s  breast  in  the  protective  and  tender  way  that  had 
grown  upon  him. 

"It  can  help  me  to  know  it  and  make  what  amends 
I  can.  Will  you  go  with  me  while  I  put  this  poor 
devil  over  the  line?" 

"Yes,  I'll  go  with  you,"  she  answered  at  once. 
She  turned  and  got  from  the  sofa  the  great-coat  that 
Viola  had  worn. 

Brookfield  took  it  from  her  and  held  it,  assisting 
her  to  put  it  on.  As  he  hooked  the  chain  fastening 
of  the  collar  under  her  chin,  he  said: 

"Helen,  you  stood  by  your  boy  in  the  fight  for  his 
life." 

"Didn't  you?^ 

Brookfield  looked  pleadingly  into  the  eyes  of  the 
woman  he  loved.  "Will  you  stand  by  me,"  he 
asked,  "while  I  make  my  fight?" 

She  answered,  simply:  "You've  made  your  fight, 
Jack — and  you've  won." 


THE    END 


A  FEW  OF 

GROSSE1    &   DUNLAP'S 
Great  Books  at  Little  Prices 


THE  MUSIC  MASTER.    By  Charles  Klein.     Illustrated 

by  John  Rae. 

This  marvelously  vivid  narrative  turns  upon  the  search  of  a  Ger 
man  musician  in  JNew  York  for  his  little  daughter.  Mr.  Klein  has 
well  portrayed  his  pathetic  struggle  with  poverty,  his  varied  expe 
riences  in  endeavoring  to  meet  the  demands  of  a  public  not  trained 
to  an  appreciation  of  the  classic,  and  his  final  great  hour  when,  in 
the  rapidly  shifting  events  of  a  big  city,  his  little  daughter,  now  a 
beautifnl  young  woman,  is  brought  to  his  very  door.  A  superb  bit 
of  fiction,  palpitating  with  the  life  of  the  great  metropolis.  The 
play  in  which  David  Warfield  scored  his  highest  success. 

DR.    LAVENDAR'S    PEOPLE.      By    Margaret   Deland. 

Illustrated  by  Lucius  Hitchcock. 

Mrs.  Deland  won  so  many  friends  through  Old  Chester  Tales 
that  this  volume  needs  no  introduction  beyond  its  title.  The  lova 
ble  doctor  is  more  ripened  in  this  later  book,  and  the  simple  come 
dies  and  tragedies  of  the  old  village  are  told  with  dramatic  charm. 

OLD  CHESTER  TALES.  By  Margaret  Deland.  Illustrated 
by  Howard  Pyle. 

Stories  portraying  with  delightful  humor  and  pathos  a  quaint  peo- 
pie  in  a  sleepy  old  town.  Dr.  Lavendar,  a  very  human  and  lovable 
"preacher,"  is  the  connecting  link  between  these  dramatic  stor\es 
from  life. 

HE  FELL  IN  LOVE  WITH  HIS  WIFE.    By  E.  P.fc.oe. 
With  frontispiece. 

The  hero  is  a  farmer— a  man  with  honest,  sincere  views  of  life. 
Beieft  of  his  wife,  his  home  is  cared  for  by  a  succession  of  domes 
tics  of  varying  degrees  of  inefficiency  until,  from  a  most  unpromis 
ing  source,  comes  a  young  woman  who  not  only  becomes  his  wife 
but  commands  his  respect  and  eventually  wins  his  love.  A  bright 
and  delicate  romance,  revealing  on  both  sides  a  love  that  surmounts 
all  difficulties  and  survives  the  censure  of  friends  as  well  as  the  bit 
terness  of  enemies. 
THE  YOKE.  By  Elizabeth  Miller. 

Against  the  historical  background  of  the  days  when  the  children 
of  Israel  were  delivered  fr-om  the  bondage  of  Egypt,  the  author  has 
sketched  a  romance  of  compelling  charm.  A  biblical  novel  as  great 
as  any  since  "  Ben  Hur." 

SAUL  OF  TARSUS.    By  Elizabeth  Miller.    Illustrated  by 
Andre*  Castaigne. 

The  scenes  of  this  story  are  laid  in  Jerusalem,  Alexandria,  Rome 
and  Damascus.  The  Apostle  Paul,  the  Martyr  Stephen,  Herod 
Agrippa  and  the  Emperors  Tiberius  and  Caligula  are  among  the 
mighty  figures  that  move  through  the  pages.  Wonderful  descrip 
tions,  and  a  love  story  of  the  purest  and  noblest  type  mark  this 
most  remarkable  religious  romance. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


TITLES   SELECTED  FROM 

GROSSET    &    DUNLAP'S    LIS7 

REALISTIC.  ENGAGING  PICTURES  OF  LIFE 


THE  GARDEN  OF  FATE.  By  Roy  Norton.  Illustrated 
by  Joseph  Clement  ColL 

The  colorful  romance  of  an  American  girl  in  Morocco,  an£ 
of  a  beautiful  garden,  whose  beauty  and  traditions  of  strange 
subtle  happenings  were  closed  to  the  world  by  a  Sultan's  seal. 

THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP.     By  Henry  Russell  Miller, 

Full  page  vignette  illustrations  by  M.  Leone  Bracker. 

The  story  of  a  tenement  waif  who  rose  by  his  own  ingenuity 

to  the  office  of  mayor  of  his  native  city.    His  experiences 

while  "climbing,"  make  a  most  interesting  example  of  the 

possibilities  of  human  nature  to  rise  above  circumstances. 

THE  KEY  TO  YESTERDAY.      By  Charles  Neville 
Buck.    Illustrated- by  R.  Schabelitz. 

Robert  Saxon,  a  prominent  artist,  has  an  accident,  while  in 
Paris,  which  obliterates  his  memory,  and  the  only  clue  he  has 
*o  his  former  life  is  a  rusty  key.  What  door  in  Paris  will  it 
unlock?  He  must  know  that  before  he  woos  the  girl  he  ioves. 

THE  DANGER  TRAIL.    By  James  Oliver  Curwood. 

Illustrated  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 
The  danger  trail  is  over  the  snow-smothered  North.    A 
young  Chicago  engineer,  who  is  building  a  road  through  the 
Hudson  Bay  region,  is  involved  in  mystery,  and  is  led  into 
tmbush  by  a  young  woman. 

THE  GAY  LORD  WARING.    By  Houghton  Townley. 
Illustrated  by  Will  Grefe. 

A  story  of  the  smart  hunting  set  in  England.  A  gay  young 
lord  wins  in  love  against  his  selfish  and  cowardly  brother  and 
apparently  against  fate  itself. 

'BY  INHERITANCE.    By  Octave  Thanet.    Illustrated 

by  Thomas  Fogarty.    Elaborate  wrapper  in  colors. 

A  wealthy  New  England  spinster  with  the  most  elaborate 

plans  for  the  education  of  the  negro  goes  to  visit  her  nephew 

m  Arkansas,  where  she  learns  the  needs  of  the  colored  race 

first  hand  and  begins  to  lose  her  theories. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


n   „         fill 

Date  Due                       /\/\    ( 

NOV    27 

1QR3 

MOV  2  u  , 

'o33' 

MAR     9 

1970 

HUVi 

i  mf\ 

NOV  2 

f  QOO     II 
v     IjQQ      IH 

Library  Bureau  Cat.  No.  1137 

HUI  W58 


